In springtime

spring clouds

 

I always think of them in spring

though they died on the sill of winter.

I sprang from them, was formed by them

in the shelter they built of gardens and painted quiet.

I think of them when the flowers start to open

and the leaves,

when the breeze is brisk but the sky is haphazard blue.

I think of them beneath this sky,

so far away from where they called home,

but the sky is the same everywhere,

and the blackbird’s song.

Published by

Jane Dougherty

I used to do lots of things I didn't much enjoy. Now I am officially a writer. It's what I always wanted to be.

15 thoughts on “In springtime”

  5. This is so poignant–tender with remembrance. I can understand why spring–when things are coming to life–would make you think of them.

    “but the sky is the same everywhere,
    and the blackbird’s song.” ❤

    Reply

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