The ghostly silhouettes of trees
accentuate the current clime,
so gaunt and lifeless in the breeze
devoid of leaves destroyed by rime
their bony limbs morosely mime
a tale of winter’s woeful span
when dreary dirges tend to loom
until the lively tune of Pan
accompanies the welcome boom
of thunder, calling buds to bloom.
2 comments:
Never forced, always excellent.
aw shucks
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