The springtime
came real early,
With teasing, gentle breeze,
The
flowers all responded,
As did the grateful
trees.
Everything was blooming,
Promise of a
bumper crop,
But winter had a different plan,
And soon
his shoe would drop.
A late spring storm would wreck
havoc,
With snow, then late hard freeze,
Inspection
later, would reveal,
Wilted flowers and dead
leaves.
Brown and limp, they hung their
heads,
As in humiliation,
Disappointment at failed
crops,
Replaced the first elation.
Those who
plant and till the soil,
Engage in game of chance,
Held
captive until harvest,
By Mother Nature’s glance.
©
Loree (Mason) O’Neil 05/04/07
Midi playing is:
Always Late
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