A stray bare branch
raps against teary, dreary panes
I tap the barometer
rain-no-change its outlook
I’m looking out, a stir-crazy lady
gardener stuck in an indoor mire
mired in mud, daffodils
have raised swathes of souffle-lemon
I’ve a taste of things to come
Joining De in her 44 word count quadrille: Stir
PoetryPix 
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