With Winter now upon us
The ditty tree is bare.
Old verses brown upon the ground.
Rhyme dreams turned to despair.
Of pithy lines a shortage.
But ditties bud anew.
Slow but sure,
Spring warmth’s the cure.
Too few you knew who grew.
With Winter now upon us
The ditty tree is bare.
Old verses brown upon the ground.
Rhyme dreams turned to despair.
Of pithy lines a shortage.
But ditties bud anew.
Slow but sure,
Spring warmth’s the cure.
Too few you knew who grew.
