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| Photo by Michael C on Unsplash |
Snowmelt pours downward,
gurgling and babbling against
still standing rocks worn
smooth. Sending sprays of
river droplets streaming through
the air; across the banks,
pooling and swirling, frigid
with the memory of ice,
chilling tentative ankles.
While around them, trees
unfold with green mist.
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| Photo by Erda Estremera on Unsplash |
Mary, Mary quite contrary,
How does your garden grow?
With silver bells and cockle shells,
And pretty maids all in a row.
Ella, Ella, writing your novella,
How does your garden grow?
With iron ink and extreme hijinks,
And stale cliches all in a row.
Lily, Lily, very silly,
How does your garden grow?
With big red noses and squirting roses,
And grinning clowns all in a row
Violet, Violet, what a pilot,
How does your garden grow?
With parachutes and long commutes,
And golden wings all in a row.
Written for dVerse's 10 Year Anniversary!
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| Photo by Penguinuhh on Unsplash |
Begin all the way at the end
with the reaping of wheat,
in the amber field by the river’s bend.
The stalks cut down arrive at death,
for the harvest is here,
when sheaves take their last breath,
gathering in each bountiful ear.
And should some stray kernels escape,
drifting down from the breeze
across the soft earth they drape.
Then at last it’s finally these
that bring us to the start,
to the seed that runs rife
with creation at it’s heart,
the commencement of life.