Saturday, February 04, 2017
Each Time
Each Time
Each time it happens
I think how can this be?
These flowers
huddling by the sidewalk,
this pine swaying
as if to a secret rhythm,
that sturdy oak
with its round haven
for the new squirrel
peeking forth.
How can they send
these tiny shivers of delight
through my veins?
How can they pluck my senses
as if I were some kind of harp
hung from a willow
near a stream?
Some sort of sounding board
ready to echo
whatever is coming my way?
Does the spirit have loose borders,
always breaking through to merge
with that which is beyond?
Dorothy Walters
February 4, 2017
