For today's NaPoWriMo poem, I've chosen a favourite topic of poets through the years: the seasons. More specifically, the early spring which we're currently experiencing, and the title of this piece is pretty self-explanatory.
Early Spring
Spring, that time of year
when grey becomes a memory
not so distant, close enough
to remember the bitter cold,
and green starts to assert itself.
Trees, skeletons of bark and timber,
their branches dotted with dormant alveoli,
return to their former selves
week after week till the green
blossoms into a swaying canvas.
Hidden away inside itself,
frozen by the frost and vice-grip
of the last winter's cold,
a yellow rose bud sprouts
and transforms into an amber altar.
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