by Joanne Allen
Something in the act of being born
when all around can feel forlorn
the old maple tree making a new impression
starting out coppery and gold
the thrush coming in to drink at the pond
where I linger
seeing at least one child
for the first time in two months
Things I’ve never noticed before
that I’ll never take for granted again
the way she tilts her head,
bends to the dogs
the way they frolic through the fields
shiny black and tussled sandy heads just appearing
over the lush green of the grasses
the way we all go back together
the hardness of parting at a distance
the promise of a full embrace
in days to come.
Joanne Allen 15th May 2020
.© Copyright Joanne Allen - THACS Writers Online 2020