Dabs of Color and Light

A frosty January morning.

The January sun is slow to rise
she shakes her flaxen head,
then dabs a bit of light—

there some color, bright
against grey, wheat, white,

the silvered-lawn sparkles–behold!

What’s to come? Black crow calls—more cold–
before summer blooms in colors bold.

A quadrille for dVerse, where De asks us to use some form of the word dab.