
Last snows melt in spring.
And with roaring, resonant thunder
the rushing river runs on,
weaving a blanket of wind
and of sound, to wrap
the weary wanderer in the
comfort of a cool embrace.
While overhead, through hemlock branches
borne up on the breeze,
dappled sunbeams dance their dance.
With thanks to Andrew B. Watt, for suggesting (in a recent post) the 50-word format.
Very nice. I like it a lot. We’re doing a thread of #50wordpoem poetry on Twitter. Feel free to post there at whatever speed you write these poems.
LikeLike
Thanks, Andrew! I’ll need to think a bit harder about whether or not I really want a Twitter account…
LikeLike