Death of the Spring

 

 

 

 

Snow shuffles slow
to the edge of the year,
huddled at the abyss.
Frosted eyes lost
to the night that has come,
seeking another day more.
Bells ringing well season’s end
and farewell, laughing
again at our fears.
Why do we cry without hope
every time, fearing
the death of the Spring?

87
I wrote this while living in Europe.

 

About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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