by Earl J. Wilcox
Late last night, you creep upon us—
cold, chilly rain, winds whipping
across Georgia & Carolinas.
Our pretty in pink peach orchards
shuddered, ready to eat (almost)
strawberries huddle under plastic tarps.
Bright purple and yellow pansies
still hopeful of weeks yet to shine
before the wilting suns of summer.
Our most beloved children—azaleas
and dogwoods—both already dressed
in their Easter bonnets. cringe, nearly
freeze in the cold winter-like night.
Oh precious and sacrosanct blackberry
cobbler, we shall miss your bubbly sauce,
your savory aroma fresh from our ovens.
Hurry along, children, summer time—
when the living comes easy—already
peeps from behind her humid clouds.
Tomorrow she will likely hum her hymn,
teach cat fish to jump.
Earl Wilcox writes from South Carolina where all flowering creatures are in bloom.
