All day the buttery wind
Blows away the snow
All the triumphant lies
That tell us what we know
The quail, little chickens,
Come for seeds we scatter.
Under the ice, ground warms
While we wait for spring
Wait for planting
Wait for flowers
Look to harvest
Look for things we scarcely know
Wait the waitings of our kind
Scratch for seeds beneath the snow.
Author: Duncan MacNae
Exiled Gael, scion of the Dust Bowl, dweller within Divine Grace, admirer of mountains, I have made my peace with trout and the starlings. Looking for a river and healing trees.
duncanmacduncan5@gmail.com
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