Under the dead leaves
tiny flowers wait for spring
and so do we all
Out of idleness induced by cold
I venture, blinking like a bear,
bundled, booted, in a rolling
moon walk over the mud,
armed with a rake, searching
for signs of March. A sprig of mint
in a litter of saffron-tinted leaves,
frog eggs like sea foam sleeping
in puddles cloaked in algal slime,
any green on a gray-trunked tree
standing like a scarecrow
on the winter-dead lawn.
A bird calls, the rake snags,
and I glimpse a bit of blue,
miniscule blossoms winking,
spring saying “forget me not,”
buried under detritus like hope.
Inspired by a Paint Chip prompt.