Coming Out Of The Spiritual Snow Poem by Romella Kitchens

That late spring so much came, past the greening
leafs.
The free-scented soil was guiltless of earth.
The dogs ran back and forth.
The dogs knew a dog's life was short so, they made haste beneath the Sun that late spring.
Old men wore presentable shirts and slacks or maybe a jaunty ball cap and well taken care of denim pants and neat jerseys.
Old men sat in the bars or grills mostly with friends well aware of the gathering sun.
The single crocus on the lawn had already come and gone like a bad politician declaring and then rescinding within the second fast heartbeat one of the other.
The crocus died leaving a lush purple scent on its path but all those Dogwoods, those sensual pink petaled Dogwoods singular, yet wise omens all, each bending towards and away from Dawn's drunken aspirations.