Little mushrooms, small toads,

Hopping between them;

Each croaking their joyous ode

For no one, maybe someone

To hear.

–

Speckled eggs of a robin hue,

They reflect the rays of the sun in their

Nest, with little glowing eyes

Of baby blue;

In a short time, these glowing eyes (of baby blue) will

Shatter, poked by the beak first touching the air,

Tingling at its crisp hand of early spring,

Began its growth, from bare to frill: 

Frills of feather and that of song, bidding the 

new glowing glowing eyes (of baby blue)

A warm greeting, into the world of them for them to be free.

–

The crook’d path was guarded, 

By aged cripples leaning for heads

Of the passing-by: reaching deep into their musings,

And with murmurs asking:

Why? A question to which many know 

No answer- the question of self,

One that digs to the throws

Of the heart

Has no clear truth, for the threads

Are quite elusive.

–

This small ball of fire, emitting rays of orange gold warmth

(A tributary quite alike to the inspiration)

Through orange and yellow-green love lyrics;

It was akin to the hearth,

As passers-by basked in its light:

For it being not time for expiation,

But rather to indulge is this fleeting feeling

While the crisp breeze battered from behind.

By Elisabeth Smith ‘28, Assistant Editor-in-Chief

28esmith@montroseschool.org