SPRING, 1951

The wind pursed its lips
and soft blew audibly,
a melodic moaning thrum
thru unleafed, prepubescent trees
on an Ozark mountainside,
sending clouds like lemmings
drowning in a sea of darkness
beyond the shadow of a planter's moon.
In childlike, blissful ignorance,
midst head-high skeletons
of last year's weeds
we played hide-and-seek,
unmindful of the birthing storm,
and caught the first warm drops
of springtime rain
on our extended laughing tongues.

Copyright 2014 Ken Ragan