Low in the early eastern sky,
Sun, like melted butter, spills
O’er the fields of sculpted snow,
Each depression, colors, fills.
The rhododendron hugs herself,
Green leaves pointed down and curled,
Waiting for a distant warmth,
To yawn and stretch and leaf unfurl.
Morning chorus, chickadees sing,
Do black caps keep them warm?
Sounds of the morning, sights of the season,
Another new day is born.
poem © Nancy Bond