The Bone Against the Plate
By Russell L
Earth celebrates as a new season approaches,
The yellowing grass is fallen confetti
and the sun is a dime in the sky.
The leaves are shrapnel of past battles.
Trees made it through the harshest winter,
With flowing beards they are grizzled vets,
Their Spanish moss, the hair of a corpse,
Their leaves will soon return from death.
The trials and famish of winter,
I love the sound of the bone against the plate,
When the sun is just a penny in the clouds,
we will soon discover a better fate.
The ants on the ground are making it through,
painfully marching in a staggered line
like soldiers across an icy battlefield,
bringing home the scraps that they find.
The sky is murky right now,
hiding the sun like icing on a cake,
Whipped cream clouds float over
the strawberry sun frosted in snowflakes.
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