There’s a patch of woods along the road,
That leads from my house into town.
Through winter I barely took notice,
Of woods draped in a widow’s gown.

A frozen road of gravel and clay,
I walk it, seems like twice a week,
To the Village Store for food and post,
The owner nods, we rarely speak.

Except for a quick, “There’s post for you.”
Or the briefest, “Will that be all?”
He reminds me of those somber woods,
Both draped in their winter’s pall.

Outside the walls of his Village store,
A child erupts in loud chatter.
Bringing me out of my deepest thoughts,
“T‘were just musings, what do they matter?”

This young girl dressed in spring’s full brilliance,
Of purples, greens, yellows, and red
Stood out against the Village grays,
Was it her colors, or something said?

A brave girl child, like the spring, I hope,
With no regard for winter gray,
Has erupted in colors, making it known
She’s here and is planning to stay.

There’s a patch of woods along the road,
That leads from my house into town.
Against the gray, a bush, I’ve noticed,
Is wearing its colorful gown.

Like the child outside the village store
It has no use for winter grays,
It’s erupted in colors making it known
There’ll be more in the coming days.

Now I pass these woods in early spring,
When warm weather melts winter’s freeze,
And look for her colors against the break,
That separates brown fields from gray trees.