When muddy footprints <br />cross the floor <br />they breathe of magic <br />held in store <br />of winter's end. <br />Warm days descend. <br />Soft breezes round <br />the sycamore <br />to linger at <br />my kitchen door <br />and buds unbend. <br />They form a verdant canopy, <br />a nesting place <br />for company <br />that swiftly blend <br />their noble notes in harmony <br />with brooklets <br />bursting to run free <br />to oceans end.<br /><br />Sibyl M. Kellman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/winter-s-end/
