A Morning in April

Early morning and the light filters softly
as snow, perhaps the last of the season, falls.

A peculiar silence falls on the quarry,
the early birds of April have fallen silent,
and there is no wind.

The snow lays on the stone, not quite a cover,
not hiding the ground, but rather,
revealing the earth’s bones.

There is no hurry, though the cold seeps under your skin,
For this will be the last of it, and you can savor the pain,
knowing you have survived another season,

that in a day, or two, maybe more, spring will resume
and this grey season will end.
And the birds will resume their singing.

And tiny tufts of green will resume their growing.
And you will stand again in the sun.

About this poem. 

It snowed this morning, and I went for a walk when I should have been getting ready for church. That’s OK. Church won’t mind if I am rumpled, and my heart is in a better place for the walk.

Tom