By Dawn Illsley
Roaring wind lulls me to another place.
Quiet breathing in the margins of my mind.
Pressing thoughts, bossy and demanding,
yank me from my reprieve to reality.
There’s a call for spring outside the window.
An urgent call from a little bird whose hungry.
Then out comes the sun, like a little answered prayer.
The light creeps across the room,
Warming the spot on the floor,
Soon to be occupied
By a little furry beast,
Desperate for warmth.
On the windowsill,
The pink blooms are dried up,
Not the end,
But it seems hopeful for more.