Ethel Wesdorp

The Lady lies sleeping,
her rounded shoulders
shaped by rolling hills;


Bare branches of
tangled trees and bushes
like tossled, curly tresses.


Remains of last year’s grasses
softening her curves,
like fine downy hair
on wheat colored cheeks.


Her icy mantle melted now,
the furrows of her brow, revealed,

Her face softly etched
in early morning light,
shadowed by April dawn.


Spring’s gentle rains
and warming rays of sun
revive her hibernating heart;

Gentle Vernal breezes blow
waking Gaia from her slumber.


Willow’s pale green haze
cloaks her waking form,

Maple’s rosy glow
rouges her pale cheeks.


Moments before
an old woman lay lost
in Age’s final sleep,

Now a maiden awakens,
Star-eyed as a child.


Shawangunk Review Volume XXIX Copyright © 2018 by Ethel Wesdorp. All Rights Reserved.

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