Beyond

Oh, how I wish
to hear a bird sing,
be inspired by the scent
of a red rose,
mused the Poet,
searching her mind.
Alas, it is still winter,
the trees grey and lifeless.
Perhaps spring will bring new inspiration.

The flower I climbed before
is all brittle now
and cannot support me,
sighed the Vine.
I wonder how long it will take me
to wind my way
to the sturdy tree over there.

Today I climbed again
the screen door,
scratch, scratch, up and and up,
searching for an opening
on top,
so that I can jump
into the garden below,
cried the White Cat.
I am not going to give up trying!