Again

Again, the pattering against the windowpane— rain sang its plaintive song. The bare branch scratched and tapped the glass— as if knocking to be let in I didn’t think spring would ever come, as strong wind wailed around my home— not until the sweet scents swung from the pinks of blossom trees, and birds trilled all day long, with dapple sunlight blinking in reprise. The hotter sun of summer shines, ablaze through my window’s glass— time to laze in deep blue shade, sip dry wines—and doze upon the grass, To dream of golden tumbling leaves and autumn’s gentle rain— then wait for winter’s claw at my casement once again. —Lesley Scoble, April 2025