Melody
She
sings the songs of summertime,
Wrapped in
honey and essense of lime.
Fresh and
unhurried, a hopeful sign
Of fortune
in the skies, no crooked dime.
She writes
the words of autumntime,
Hums and
plucks out this simple rhyme.
The tale
of a boy who could only mime
These conversant
notes hung on the vine.
She plays
the sounds of wintertime,
Silken song
of blackbirds in morning shine.
The pine
of a girl, an escape from grime,
A nine-lives
tale from a long-lost time.
She recalls
the images of springtime,
Meadows in
bloom, fresh sweet thyme.
A snail’s
slow climb exits silver slime,
Hares’ fighting
ire amid sunset’s fire.
Copyright
Vickie Johnstone, July 5, 2020
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