*~* Spring Tugs *~*
Behind the house, the river trills
O’er rocks and stones it tumbles, spills.
Little freshets join its song,
Freed from winters far too long.
Golden leaf escapes its bud,
Footpaths, roadways turn to mud.
Clotheslines sag beneath the tugs
Of heavy quilts and braided rugs.
Naked maples, soon on tap,
Dented pails collecting sap
Scarves and mitts will disappear,
As long-awaited warmth draws near.
Crocuses and hyacinths
Will poke their heads up, inch by inch,
Purple harbingers of spring,
That stand for all this season brings.
© 2008 Nancy Bond