*Photo credit: Keith R. Good.(Photos by Keith Good Facebook Community Page)
Memory glimpses – stark,
the scene, bare trees,
dormant, death reaching up.
Grass, just shreds of itself,
green gone, done, dark,
dead.
I said Mama, the grass died.
Heart sick, I look to her.She said not dead, it comes
back. Years of winter disbelief -
but spring came and I did
see.
I live in a place where grass
does not die, doesn’t give up,where trees leaf all year.
Hope of Spring comes,
brings expectation. I wait
for winter to give up.
I wait for my son to come
home.
