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Written by Dawn   
Sunday, 12 April 2009 21:24

The goldfinches are gold again.
Their true colors returned.

But the beauty had been there,
All along and through the gray days.

He had stopped singing his sweet bubbly sound,
But only for Winter, and that has long gone.

So now I hear his energetic seronade.
This is the place where music is made.

Cast me your spell.
And look in my eyes.

I hope you can hear me. 
No sounds though I make.

Longing to utter,
Those long held onto words.

Keeps me dreaming.
And listening to birds.