The bluebirds are back –
spring can’t be far behind.
Bits of blue fleck the feeder
though skies still rain gray.
Branches shiver.
Golden tufts of daffodils pulse
underground, eager to unfurl,
the crocus extending
a hopeful head.
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A fine poem, KB. I yearn for spring.
The language is tight, beautiful. The closing pathetic fallacy deftly handled.
John