A Poem

Up like Steeples

Cynthia Lott Vogel

all rights reserved

Growth. 

Up from the frozen gloomy loam,

a  green appendage stretches,

 yawning his verdant yawn.

Breath of damp tundra.

Three church steeples appear in the ground,
A Holy Trinity of green.

Their worshipers gather. 

Lime.  Yellow.  White. 

Nestled in snow's furrows breathing out

hope for those who would inhale deep.

Catch the season in the scent. 

The golden orb: warmth inviting growth.

No more cramped crouching.

Come sway in the sun! 

But there is a dark rumor...

a mutter of frozen nights to be

yet borne and survived.

Make haste while the sun shines! 

We'll deal with the nocturnal bite when it comes.