The water holds the sky like a promise—
pale rose bleeding into quiet blue,
while bare branches reach through winter’s last grip, their skeletal fingers softening in the haze.
Still the trees stand mostly dormant,
stripped of summer’s green excess,
yet something shifts in the quality of light,
the way it lingers, reluctant to depart.
Evergreens keep vigil at the water’s edge,
their spiky silhouettes mirrored in glass,
and though the ground wears autumn’s fallen coat, the air tastes different now—expectant.
This is the in-between time,
when cold and warmth wage their gentle war, when the earth prepares beneath our feet for the green explosion soon to come.
The pond knows first—collecting sunrise’s warmth, releasing morning mist like whispered secrets.
Watch the reflections carefully: they’re rehearsing for the leaves that aren’t here yet.
Pond mirrors pale waking sky
Mist lingers like dreams
You must be logged in to post a comment.