Like Ink Fallen Upon a Wet Page

Maybe I heard it in
the whispered drip of a dream,
spring trying to write
its story around the trees
and across the field.
In the dim near light
before dawn pulled its covers,
some primal push awakened me,
ushering me to the window.
Out where snow held sway
for ninety days, a blank page
upon which each day
I wrote you letters unsent,
dark spots grew almost while
I watched. And with morning’s sun,
I saw a different darkness,
like drops of ink fallen upon
a wet page, blossom into
the hope of new life,
come some April morning.

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