The dew isn't frozen for a change,
each step leaves a dark hole,
a trail to my soggy shoes.
Once again,
I stand at the old wooden shed door
with a bent, rusty key
that no longer turns the stuck lock.
It would be easy to break in.
Inside,
the axe,
the scythe,
the shears,
all in need of sharpening.
I'm not ready yet.
Written for Poets and Storytellers #246 – spring. Look at that. I actually wrote a seasonal poem.
Today’s Daily Stoic poem:
