Wednesday, January 16, 2013

When the Summer Was Young

A little bluebird spoke to me
Long ago, in a sycamore tree
When the wind was soft,
And the summers sweet
And the children played in the shining creek.
"Winter is old," he sang to the sky,
While the breeze blew the clouds and the sunlight by
And a meadowlark swayed in the heart of the rye,
"Winter is old, and summer is nigh."
A little bluebird in a crooked limb
Sang a song that made sense to him
But now all the trees are dark and dim
And the silence of creeks seems somehow a sin.


  1. I'm always delighted when one of your poems shows up in my reader feed. I love the way the words flow. Please keep writing!
    -A Happy Subscriber

  2. By the way, I noticed you have a link to my old blog, Rachel Devin's, on here. If you'd replace it with, my new address, I'd appreciate it. Thank you! And thank you so much for linking to me! Keep in touch.