Lit

The oaks leaves now filter the moonlight, though they remain few enough that the silhouetted bones of the trees can still be seen. The moon itself floats among thin clouds that ripple across the sky like wrinkled gauze. The chorus of the frogs seems to grow nightly, and tonight an owl accompanies it, hooting like an imperious diva. The air grows surprisingly mild, and I catch a faint whiff of spurge laurel, pungent yet sweet, the scent of spring. Now it truly seems that winter will not return, and if spring does not bring kindly rain we will be parched when summer arrives. The moonlight washes a fresh world, but how long will the freshness last?


( Sunday Verse )