A Thought for Every Word

Spent Blooms

Sandburg…his name constant this winter as the fog again shrouds the trees in gossamer threads as winter lingers.

Spring will return.

Then, as nights warm to longer sun lit days, the doorways will again become host to surplus-store clad night denizens. A whispered community of human discards huddled up against prized possessions found among damp cardboard Chinese-food takeout containers. Bleary eyed from street soot. Weary limbed from stone cold concrete.

A tear unshed now and again for another lost time traveler, and those travelers that must remain. Seeking out the longer sun lit days in green grass parks, with dampened bottoms and leathered faces, gleaning the water from the grass to wash the soot from their finger tips. Wistful smiles as the smell of the grass lightens a darkened soul.

Spring will return, and again the bees will buzz around the spent blooms of yellow daffodils and red tulips that sit crowned on top the pile of white plastic twist tie bags. Gone are the days of spotting the good bits in the open bin. Nails kept long to prick open the bags and pick through the remains. Cavernous dumpsters echo in the growing light.

And Sandburg…whispering again from the open boxcar door, about white pigeons rushing at the sun.

Spring will return. It always does.

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