When winter turns spring,
shall I still be here?
A certain music
sounds ever more clear –
sometimes alarming,
sometimes tender, dear.
The river,
once wide to cross,
dwindles: a stream
I could step over with a toss
of my hair. But –
gain or loss?
A quadrille written for dVerse Q227. (44 words exactly, excluding title, with one compulsory word, in this case 'turn,' and its derivatives.)