My wren is singing blue today.
Hummers have been gone for weeks,
reminds that spring is far away.
A gust near Hoja Santa beds
sends winds with lovely Rootbeer whiffs
across my daily breakfast spread.
Hard freeze hit the lovely leaves,
now they hang like shriveled bats―
resting beneath the back porch eaves.
Most backyard trees are naked now,
their leafy gowns returned to earth,
just limbs remain, a crooked bough.
One bamboo clump has jumped the fence —
a burst of green among the drab.
It warms dead grass by its presence.
My shoulder aches on damp, cold days,
while gloom endures each morning.
House wrens sing blue every day.
My winter heart feels only longing.
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