Friday, January 28, 2011


Windows open
to the soft dusk,
I listen. Spring comes,
calling 'Chuck-Will's-Widow'
across the fields.

I heard this song
in the hollows
of my childhood.
I knew it as the voice
of first love,

tenuous, tender.
It is the song
of years past;
the light of fireflies
is in it.

Stephen Brooke ©2011

The obligatory 'spring poem.' It is feeling rather spring-like here at the moment. A little too early to expect it to last, though.

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