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 Rest
The crisp cold wind is warning a signal to all the land,
The migrating birds are leaving, in sync with what The Great Spirit has planned.
The animals sense the change; they know the time draws near,
When the sounds of Brother Winter, will be the only sounds they hear.
Covered by a blanket of snow; the land is fast asleep,
Not until the days of spring from Mother Earth will hear a peep.
My people rest as well; we build our campfires high.
Until the warming sun; returns to fill the sky.
JRS © 10-6-00
The “Okie”
All poems copyrighted
ã1997-... Spring Creations
The "Okie" Poet
All Rights Reserved
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