Woods were waking up today
after the snow.
Twigs stretched away winter stiffness,
ticked dry
in the mad March sun.

Mists rolled along ribbed fields.
Warmed from wetness
they dressed a threadbare hedge
as black scraps of boasting crows
called taunts across the sky`s playground.


If you would like to hear Gina reading this poem, you can do so hereĀ  {audio}mp3/March Sun.mp3{/audio}

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