Poem: Early Spring

The snow loosens its grip on the quiet earth,
slipping away in silver threads of melt.
Beneath the damp soil, something remembers
how to reach for light.

Bare branches rehearse their first green thoughts,
slowly stitching buds along the wind.
The air still tastes of winter—
but softer now,
as if the cold has begun to forgive.

A robin writes small questions in the grass,
tilting its head to listen
for the secret stirring underground.

Somewhere a stream clears its throat,
finding its voice again among the stones.

And in the pale, patient sunlight,
the world—still fragile, still half-asleep—
tries once more
to begin.

Thank-you for reading,

Brenda Marie