The foggy breath of Spring
Settles heavily upon the woods
Thawing the death grip
Of an aging Winter.
The silver mist curls
And entwines about
Dangling clumps of needles
Sparkling of crystal beadlets
That reflect the emerald carpeting
Of the forest floor.
Silence drifts along
With every twist of the thickening haze
Only to be defied
By those glittering drops
That can no longer support their increasing size
And slip from finger tips of hidden pines
Into space...
By outstretched limbs...
To shatter a mirror
A pool of hope
A dream of Spring
Copyright by Mark W. Vance Feb 1974