As We Turn

A poem on early spring.

The water drips down
barren branches. A trickle
here and there, a padding
on the roof. 

The baby sleeps sound
beside me. A comfort
to be near, a breathing
soft and slow.

The rain reaching ground
and soil. A muddy
porch and yard, a trail
of wet footsteps. 

The season is found
this morning. A sight
of leaves and wind, a chapter
as we turn. 

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