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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