Before forsythia
spills its color in the wind,
and the moon turns envious
of its gold,
mountains stand their stead,
stern and stately cold.
They peak above the mist
for even stone
seeks sun.
Pitching Pennies Poetry
the work of smzang
the work of smzang
Before forsythia
spills its color in the wind,
and the moon turns envious
of its gold,
mountains stand their stead,
stern and stately cold.
They peak above the mist
for even stone
seeks sun.
Dear Sarah, I was looking at the forsythia coming into bloom in the garden only yesterday. ❤
Jane,
I’m beginning to wonder if we will be visited by Spring this year.
Yesterday was a bit warmer so I thought maybe we were done
with winter, but woke up this morning to find the trees and hedges
layered with snow. It would be beautiful if it were Christmas, but
even Easter has come and gone.
Wishing you lots of gold (forsythia and sunshine…most precious
of all!)
Hugs,
Sarah
The only reason birds that visit us is because of our birdfeeder. But they don’t stop to sing; they want to get to a warmer place. Where can that be, I wonder?
I don’t know, but I’m ready to migrate.
Winter is hanging on too long.