Here are some dried weeds
To place on your sill
To warn your todays of past years.
Their death-rattle laughter
Will rasp in the breeze,
And echo no hope...
Yet, no fear.

Outside are wild flowers,
Awave in the sun,
A promise of life born anew.
Their spirit is timeless, it cannot be held;
They are yours..
But, always
Are free.

My gifts are of Life,
And, of death to the myths
That whisper in dead, winter weeds.

~ doza