
Creeks sing to wake the frogs.
New leaves whisper, waking the wind.
Old, crooked trees have their own
music, a quiet unfurling of
wandering woodland notes.
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Creeks sing to wake the frogs.
New leaves whisper, waking the wind.
Old, crooked trees have their own
music, a quiet unfurling of
wandering woodland notes.
Continue reading

American lady
butterflies
charm and
delight
every child.
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Waves of heat bake golden sand,
splashed by frothy waves. Gulls
and sandpipers dot grassy dunes.
A long, tall drink comes to hand.
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Used with Permission of Resa Swork

softer
snowfall
in April
a winged angelic and feathery stillness
heralds divine music from above
the icy confection
reminds of protection
brings a sense of peace
contemplating movement
making art turn into magic while
overhead fly Canada geese
Copyright 2016 Brenda Davis Harsham Continue reading

Purple party hats prickle
Continue reading

Snow showers
bury
spring flowers
deep Continue reading

Anyone who falters to a stop,
mid breath, and
lets her words breathe,
then echo,
then die,
is a poet.

Fresco at University of St. Thomas in Minneapolis Used by Permission of Laura Purdie Salas
The fairy tale, the prosaic,
the absurd and the divine,
find their way into myth,
story, art and rhyme.

Mudiferous,
squelching ramble
beneath bare branches
and yearning buds
yields a vast harvest
in my wintry soul
of spring faith. Continue reading