nature poetry
An ode to Mother Nature; poems that take their inspiration from the great outdoors.
𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕤𝕜𝕪
✨ Tonight a bright moon in contrast to before dawn when the moon turned red. ✨ “Then God said, “Let there be lights in the firmament of the heavens to divide the day from the night; and let them be for signs and seasons, and for days and years;”. Genesis‬ â€1‬:â€14‬ â€NKJV
By Colleen Walters7 months ago in Poets
False Spring
It never began with apologies. It began with a mild day no one had predicted. The kind that makes you pause in the doorway, coat in hand, and think — maybe not. You’d reappear carefully. Not grand. Not desperate. Just steady enough to make doubt feel dramatic. You spoke as if the past were weather — unfortunate, passing, nothing anyone could control. I wanted that to be true. So I let the air change without questioning it. Moved things back where they used to sit. Answered calls I had practiced ignoring. Translated sharpness into stress. Told myself growth can look like discomfort. And I believed you because the sun was out. Because the trees were trying. Because it felt unreasonable to doubt warmth while standing in it. False spring is convincing like that. It coaxes the buds open early, whispers, *see? it’s different this time.* Even the birds test their wings. Then, without announcement, the temperature drops at night. Petals go translucent. The ground stiffens again. You would say I was overreacting. That it wasn’t that cold. That I’d always been sensitive to weather. So I learned to call shivering a personality trait. Learned to apologize for needing a coat. Learned to study the sky instead of you. The hardest part wasn’t the cold. It was how believable the warmth had been. How briefly, beautifully ordinary it felt to stand in it without bracing. Now, when February goes soft, I still notice. Still feel that small lift in my chest. I just don’t put my coat away. Some warmth doesn’t mean arrival. Some seasons are rehearsals. And some winters never admit they’re still here.
By Brie Boleyn7 months ago in Poets
The Paper that Folds and then Unfolds
The monster fold a... a paper "toad" a gulp a croak a ribbit a ribbit a ribbit a ribbit a ribbit a brum a brum a brum a brum a brum deep deep deep down in sleep it appears is its sole... Thank you for reading! Which part of the poem resonates with you? Share your thoughts! Please leave a comment. Copyright 2026 K.A. Smith
By K.A. Smith7 months ago in Poets
