As the bulbs of spring do wait alone, in darkness;
Tiny possibilities, curled against the cold;
For touch of warmth, reminder of Spring's faithfulness,
So do I wait, for the Sun's touch of tender gold.
Outside my kitchen window a grackle sings.
His song is not a pretty one -
And 'grackle' an unfortunate name
for a love bird.
Guard your heart, my Love
for we have wiles.
We appear gentle lambs
with dewy eyes -
Not with libations but with shouts and laughter
I found you, my sister, at Muse's altar,
Calling blessings to me as pen did falter
And passion to write softened. I sought after