First Day of New England Spring

It seems too cold to think “Spring!”  But here we are entering my favorite season of the year.  Is anyone writing about spring?  Anyone taking pictures?  Please share!  Here’s what I got this morning:

Patches green,

Patches white,

I can’t see them

In the night.


Breathe the damp,

Nose is cold

Winter makes me

Feel so old!


Through the white

Purple head

Rouses me from

Out of bed.


Smiles at me—

Morning cheer!

Promises warm

Days are near


Eager hands

Brush back white

I can’t pick them,

It’s not right.


Trumpets blare,

Blast, and sing,


Announce the spring!


About Lift the Cross of Jesus!

My day job is writing--I'm an author and publisher of a number of books. More on that later. But there is nothing of greater importance to me than the early morning hours I spend with the Creator of the Universe. Although He knows everything there is to know, His greatest delight isn't to give us knowledge, but to give us love. My highest joy is to watch the sun rise with notebook in hand and write the words he speaks to my heart. I want to share some of those words with you here . . . words on the cross.
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6 Responses to First Day of New England Spring

  1. Larry Who says:

    We’re tired of winter out here…why it’s only 71 today.


  2. markssong says:

    Ok Hope – You’ve sparked the poet in me. Here is one I’m making up right now at 5:38 PM.
    ‘No title” (that’s a good title-I’ll keep it)

    I’m entitled to the coming Spring
    Though it only snowed two days ago
    The snow has since melted and I to am dry
    I can stay out long enough now
    To stare at clouds going by
    The beautiful blue I remember
    Before Winter hid most of all
    The birds songs now a reminder
    And the bulbs begin their crawl
    The dead of Winter holds no fear
    As I see new life that’s drawing near
    A windy song whisps through the trees
    The same song every season plays
    A song with no title but a cool, Spring breeze


  3. Ray & Ginny Merritt says:

    Hope – here is a verse Ray wrote yesterday morning:

    Spring slips its fingers into snow; Two seasons struggle like arm wrestlers Straining for an overthrow. How long before the winter is the loser, When his icy knuckles puddle on the pavement?

    Ray Merritt

    (sent by Ginny Merritt)


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