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 196 times
Written on 2012-03-27 at 09:18

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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.