Where Soon The Barren Tree Will Sing

The idea of this poem started the other daywhile soaking up some much-coveted rare sunshine... Soon, soon the barren tree will burst and be barren no more... Soon gardens, fantasy-immersed will brim with hymn and chore... Soon backdrops white, like canvases showcasing stencil-artWill roll like emerald oceans to where earth and heavens part... And living rooms will spill to patios and balconies... As words like ‘b-r-r-r’ and ‘with-wind-chill’ will turn to memories... Soon finches will wear gold again instead of dull chartreuse... (It seems for every snow-storm we get this winter a mild spell follows to keep the drifts from getting too massive, and constantly teasing us with thoughts of spring) Soon, soon the barren tree will burst and be barren no moreSoon gardens, fantasy-immersed will brim with hymn and choreSoon backdrops white, like canvases showcasing stencil-artWill roll like emerald oceans to where earth and heavens partAnd living rooms will spill to patios and balconiesAs words like ‘b-r-r-r’ and ‘with-wind-chill’ will turn to memories Soon finches will wear gold again instead of dull chartreuseAnd though we will be older then, we will feel more footlooseAfter we trade our parkas for the longed-for luxuryOf soaking in the sunshine or in shade beneath a treeAs daffodils with yellow, ruffled frills spilling spring’s mirthA-dapple hills and dells from legacies held in the earth Soon indoor tasks will wrangle with flasks welkin, zephyr-kissedAnd set at odds the law and order of the to-do listAnd winter will slip from its perch with every drip and dropWhere now we slip and slide and lurch and honk and hope we stopWhere now we sip slow cups of java and traverse the worldOn parchment schooners, into sagas, page by page unfurled Soon the gray-drenched duvet that drapes dusk’s dormant countrysideWill flush into a blossom-blushing dew-brushed eventideAnd we will pause, perhaps, to marvel at how swift time fliesThrough winter, now a sparkle on the landscape of spent sighs...where hues that brood in wait for spring have rent bud-gates to soarAnd stir the barren tree to sing and be barren no more © Janet Martin Soon winter will fly away like a blue jaywith beak full of peanut😂 Soon the gray-drenched duvet that drapes dusk’s dormant countrysideWill flush into a blossom-blushing dew-brushed eventide...