The pond lies still beneath the waking trees,
its glass unbroken by the robin’s flight.
Soft moss returns with every warming breeze.
No human sound, just frogs and honeybees,
the ripples fade as fast as morning light.
The pond lies still beneath the waking trees.
A heron waits, half-shadowed at the knees
of birch that lean in robes of green and white.
Soft moss returns with every warming breeze.
A squirrel leaps through branches with the ease
of things that never wonder why or might.
The pond lies still beneath the waking trees.
Spring hums a tune that no one ever sees,
but every bud unfolds to meet its height.
Soft moss returns with every warming breeze,
the pond lies still beneath the waking trees.
About the Creator
E. C. Mira
I’m a poet at heart, always chasing the quiet moments and turning them into words. Most of what I write is poetry, but every now and then inspiration pulls me in new directions.
www.poetrybyecmira.com
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By Leigh Hooperabout 13 hours ago in Fiction
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