Submitted by Karen Shepherd
I wake to see the moss on maples. Buds
on branches shy to winter’s lingering
start opening their eyes, limbs fingering
a glimpse of sun through clouds. Remembrance floods
the woods with honeyed light and myriads
of song from creeks and warblers. Early spring
is stretching, rested dawn is reveling
these in-between soft dreamy periods.
The cottonwoods now sway in breaking light
a rhythmic gliding through the warming air.
I stay, unwilling now to rise despite
the morning’s welcome broached with sincere care.
A piece of moon still whispers of our night.
Your breath, let go, now tangles in my hair.
About the Poet
Karen Shepherd lives with her husband and two teenagers in the Pacific Northwest where she enjoys kayaking, walking in forests and listening to the rain. Her poetry and flash fiction have been published in various journals online and in print, but most of her work just lives on her laptop.
Painting: Woman at the Garden – Renoir
Vita Brevis Press. 
Beautiful language and rhythm. I could picture it all so vividly.
Merril said it well, this is really just perfect!