Silent Voice Quoting Poetry

Today's a day when I write poetry in my head, lines and lines about weeping skies and weeping trees, people whose hearts call for sun and spring as they rush by, huddled in on themselves as the sky shrouds the light in clouds, as the dripping cold rain turns to snow, as the leaves frost white and the branches bow low. 

Spring in Colorado lends itself to quixotic weather, from 80s to snow in a week. Luckily, due to laziness or foresight depending, all my new plants remain unplanted and huddle in the garage.