Spring

By David De Jong

She appeared just below the tree-line stair
Alpine eyes with flowing charcoal hair
Riding a paint on a buffalo hide
Strung with turquoise, chiming every stride
The paint kept step with the blue stones on queue
While his rider enlightened the view

Long buckskin dress, trimmed in tasseled beads
Wafting scents of saffron, sifting seeds
Planting the prairie, coloring grass
Sowing wildflowers with every pass
Like a breeze she whispered clouds of rain
Coaxing new growth in this fertile plain

They call her Spring, Child of Winter’s Past
Mother of new growth and summer’s fast
Once seen she fades in obscurity
And rests beyond the deep southern sea
She will return, chasing winter’s breath
Resurrecting life from frozen death

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