I see the acers coming into bud.

Rain falls lightly in the winter wood,
Dampening stones that make a pathway through
The overgrown, the old trees and the new.
The odour of the rain on grass is good

I see the acers coming into bud.
The daffodils are waving as I view.
The lily pond is lonely without you.
We used to feed a robin when we could

 

After Mass on Sunday mornings then
We’d drive to woods  and walk to lessen strain.
But now I cannot write, I clutch your pen.
My inspiration gives me life again.

 

Without your hand in mine, I walk quite lame.
The dampness on my face is tears, not rain