A ladder to tiny feet,
an escape to the heavens,
a haven on high,
away from canine intrusions,
a place of nooks, crannies,
secret bolt holes and
hidden stores.
Hiding.
A treehouse, a mansion,
another dimension
betwixt earth and sky,
where small critters
can shiver out of icy winds,
escape high above snowdrifts and
listen for the quickening.
Waiting.
A trickle of ice melt,
the scritch-scritch of green shoots,
the drumming surge of resin,
drip, drops of shiny amber,
the burgeoning of buds,
a whisper of unfolding forsythia,
a symphony heard only by tiny ears.
Spring.

Copyright 2016 Brenda Davis Harsham

Note: This poem is my contribution for Poetry Friday, this week hosted thanks to The Miss Rumphius Effect. This photo was taken at Massachusetts Audubon site, Belmont Habitat. You can see gray sky, but not pelting rain. My son observed me taking photos from under my umbrella. He alleged that in filming Singing in the Rain, they had to dye the rain white because it was invisible otherwise. I haven’t confirmed this, but I immediately pictured Gene Kelly completely white after filming, like an angel. Or a plaster saint. I hope you’re warm and dry or at least have a good umbrella. We have our first snow day here this morning. Happy children bounding and bouncing! Warmly, Brenda