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Promise of Spring

By Patricia Chown

On a dull November Day
As I went down the lane,
Noting the sad denuded trees
Their last dry shabby leaves
Strewn beneath my feet,
The slim branch of a sycamore
Leaned out to touch my cheek.

And then I wondering saw
Small nodules lay along the branch
All glossy chestnut brown.
And nestling within their shelter slept
The leaves of next year’s Spring.

As I gazed the knowledge came
That though I shared with them
The slow dying of the year,
I too sheltered in my heart
The joyful promise of another Spring,
A bright Spring still to come.

A Spring to outshine other Springs.
This I knew and this I know!


Tim Surtell
Website Developer and Archivist

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