Digging between yellow and blue,
the smell of soil, the itches of spring
Winter winds gusting one last time among
apple blossoms waiting to spring into bloom
And all the while songs whirl through the head,
of emotions unbottled by a beautiful soul.
Wishing I could hear my mother sing just once again.
Still, I'm running late, and don't really have time for sentimental poetry. Sorry. See ya





