Poetry of a Conlanger

Thursday, November 24, 2005


Somehow, flint and steel have struck.
A tiny tongue of flame has been born.

I can feel it
Nudging away the winter,
Turning the sun from pale cream to full-bodied yellow.

As the snow melts,
My garden appears.
Soon I will turn the rich earth,
Releasing its fresh scent into the air.

I will look in the old shed, too, for seeds.
In old coffee cans,
In dirty glass dishes,
In hidden corners.

Then, turning, I will haul out the rusted bin.
Slowly removing gloves, spades, rakes,
Even a dead mouse,
I will find it-
That lonely, near-new
Seed packet.

Spring is here.
Spring is here.


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