The Pasture

Today, your childhood rests gently

Beneath a blanket of freshly fallen snow,

But do not despair, for the garden you used

To grow, is waiting for you, my dear.

The lilacs and brambles long to feel

Your gentle grace pass through their branches—

And someday they hope to reminisce

Again with the child who they’ve come to miss.

The pink and purple pastures, are waiting

Beneath a winter glaze—the flowers know

You will return to pluck the prettiest petals,

The gift they have been born to give.

And in this meadow, when the frost has lifted,

And you meander once again, with a grin

Widened in glee across your face, the

Bluebirds will flutter down on weightless wings,

And melodically sing of how they're glad you came.

Below the weight of winter, the grass is green—

The same path, the one you played upon as a kid,

Is sitting idly, waiting for the first sign of spring.

Behind the clouds the sky emulates a cerulean hue,

And pauses patiently, until you return once more

     DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com