A grey canope protects hard earth
from the rush of sun, lets it sleep
6 months more before spring's crude
conquering, shoots thrusting through soil
spreading across black dirt to choke it.
For now, it's suspended in white
ice fingers creeping to the muted sun
a forest of empty banches standing silent
to dream of summer breezes through the green
lush of new spring coats.
Photo by Becky Taylor; Poetry by Heather Taylor
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