Mother Nature Still Defaults to Life
In the late night silence,
I listen to the rain,
and your breath,
and the noises a house makes in the dark;
a cacophony of voices in my head.
Grief abounds, and loss,
and the worst is yet to come, they say.
What do you do while your foundation crumbles?
The word is unsettled today
Yet, the
morning sun reveals white clouds, blue sky,
some trees still bare-- their leaves still brown -- but
three chickadees sit on the branches
of the cherry tree, its almost pink
blossoms exploding, backdrop to the
birdsong symphony, warm up to spring.
Mother Nature still defaults to life.
© Christine Salkin Davis, 2020
I listen to the rain,
and your breath,
and the noises a house makes in the dark;
a cacophony of voices in my head.
Grief abounds, and loss,
and the worst is yet to come, they say.
What do you do while your foundation crumbles?
The word is unsettled today
Yet, the
morning sun reveals white clouds, blue sky,
some trees still bare-- their leaves still brown -- but
three chickadees sit on the branches
of the cherry tree, its almost pink
blossoms exploding, backdrop to the
birdsong symphony, warm up to spring.
Mother Nature still defaults to life.
© Christine Salkin Davis, 2020
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