It's afternoon, looking just
at the window from where I
am sitting, at the gray
cold-looking clouds, branches
of a still young pine swaying
in the wind
(we planted it almost
fourty years ago, but
it grew so slowly at first,
in the shadow of the house),
you wouldn't believe
that the snow has melted
from around it, the snow
whose cover is broken now
even on the farmland
rolling towards the village
on the ridge, that
it's eleven degrees plus
outside, and that it's raining
there, spring raining
on winter's remains.
08.04.2024
#Poem #Poetry #Poems #Verse
Ei kommentteja:
Lähetä kommentti