Poets

The sight of the dawn light peering through the trees of our back lot; The chirps of the chickadees yearning for spring outside our windows; The appearance of first buds poking their way to the sun; The freshening aromas of our flowers and grasses as they reawaken.

She'll never see these blooms again; One last summer before she goes away. We'll never walk this way again;

sometimes I wake to the morning light and see her lying next to me in the quietude of dreamy silence.