The air is odd.
The sun is warm in the afternoon.
The breeze is cool, vestiges of winter in the wind.
The snow, gone. The grass not yet green.
The in-between time. Natures purgatory.
A season of hope. Of promise
not yet realized.
About this poem
A poem about the cusp of spring. A poem about the cusp of hope, when everything is barren, and yet…..
The picture was taken just over the state line from where I live. In New York.