On Gregory’s Pond

As snowy blossoms gently fall to ground,
A soothing, soaring, skylark song rings clear,
As if to pierce the silent, deafening sound,
Awakening an inner voice sincere.

Reflections, closer than they oft appear
when viewed head-on, no longer lie in wait,
Breaking through the long, dark months of drear,
This day, the ides of May, my fear abates.

I need no guide or map, my sense innate,
For I have often traveled on this way,
Our ‘Mommy’ walks, though memories abate,
Remain in psyche, as if yesterday.

Gregory’s Pond, a neighborhood retreat,
Still wends its wispy web through moments sweet.

Photo Friday: Reflections

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