The holly bid farewell to the Yule of its
life,
Dark days froze upon the edge of light´s
knife,
Winter grimaced with frost of darkened
malign,
Until sun peeped with tepid smile, shyly
benign.
In every grey corner of street, pavement
& wood,
She hovered, mantled in drab budded tight
hood,
Bidding her time & timing her rightful
spring season,
Appearing on stage too early, would be for
no reason.
Then suddenly & softly, on one
grey-dove-winged morn,
Lights of gold switched on, illuminating
waiting soft dawn,
Dancing in waning moonbeams, against
cracking grey sky,
As winter bids icy farewell, with her sad
& frosty last sigh.
Tis the season of mimosa, of springtime´s
golden gown,
Waltzing in her friezed finery, as father
sun smiles down,
In her breezy ballet slippers & gold dress
softly swaying,
Mimosa´s really saying, “It is spring &
here I´ll be staying”.
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