Promise Of Spring #poetry #poem

Forlorn trees stand

cold and alone,

their long dark fingers

stripped of green summer gloves

reaching out towards

a steely grey sky

searching out the warmth

of a long-forgotten sun

they cannot find.

The snow will come soon.

At first, in its

virgin white form,

lessening the harshness

of the bleak, moorish landscape.

But, as it thaws,

the bleakness returns;

broken only by all too occasional

glorious sunsets.

And so this is winter.

This is all there is

Until brief days

grow steadily longer.

And brave snowdrops

first dare to raise

their fragile heads,

hoping, at long last,

That Spring has come.