Drawing the Curtain

 The fallen bird house
Has lipped and lost its mooring
On this melting day.

 

 Even the plowed banks
Are radiant in the sun
Of this dying day.

 

 Sunlight is gentle;
Soft wind whispers in the trees.
Listen! Rooster crows.

Winter has relaxed
Puddles form along the road;
The trees are waving.

Grabbing the last light
Hills hold onto the shadows
As the sun goes down.

Staring into space
Ghost enjoys the flavors
Of the warming air.

Mirrors on the road
Liquid rippling reflection
Of the coming Spring.

Sun slowly descends
Transforming the world orange--
Drawing the curtain.