poem

 Verge of SpringThis feels like the verge of springEven though winter clingsWith the last of its waning powersNaked trees clutch At a dullard gray skyWith bony arthritic hands A random pile of dirty ice,Last remnant of week ago snow,Glaciers against a curbIf you look closeYou can see white buds of cherry treesAnd daffodil stems just piercing the soilIf you look closerYou can see an empty patchOf grass that won ’t ever come back 3/15/22

Source: Buckeye Surgeon - March 15, 2022 Category: Surgery Authors: Jeffrey Parks MD FACS Source Type: blogs