ding dong the winter is dead



spring morning

she mountaineers a chair

reverently fetching

her denim jacket

the blue of periwinkle

and of welsh poppy


real converse

for skipping ropes

the breath of gravel over asphalt

and tree-climbing

into the budding sun







Poetry by Katarina Wikholm
Read 163 times
Written on 2012-03-27 at 09:18

dott Save as a bookmark (requires login)
dott Write a comment (requires login)
dott Send as email
dott Print text




My first day of spring was much like this. I knew it arrived when my friend Todd and I could go to the park and sit on the ground beneath an big oak, and the ground was dry and warm, no longer cold and sodden, and we could feel the earth spin, and we held on. And then, it was for the "climbing tree" we went. And then the mitts and baseball, and the Keds. Thanks for the memories.
2012-03-27