The Hidden Path

Eighty days since winter’s solstice,
The snow has come and gone,
Eighty days for April showers;
Unraveler of the verdant lawn.

What lies beneath the melting snow?
The icy threadbare path.
Encased inside a frozen tomb,
The victim of winter’s wrath.

Frozen earth then thaws to mud,
The road begins to meld,
Sunken earth consuming shape,
Obscuring the path the trail held.

The birth of flora then beckons the sun,
Their rituals invoke spring equinox;
Swaying in time with the whispering wind,
Drying the timbers and the solemn rocks.

The weathered vestige purging humours,
It’s face then hardens into brittle ground,
Parched earth cries out in tears of dust,
As the swallow’s dirge begins to sound.

Elements ostracized traces of it’s past,
This hidden road now begins anew,
Overgrown in lush foliage,
Secretly drinking alone of springtime dew.


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