The sun, some days, now burns away the gray:
The fog, the dreary mist will cry, but go.
We, too, will brighten; “Spring is here!” we’ll say.
But ask the old mesquites; they always know.
The robin seeks a harvest on the lawn,
His red breast like the color of Spring blooms.
We celebrate, think all the cold is gone,
But old mesquites are mute as if in tombs.
The saplings green; the fruit trees start to bud.
The earth was pale; now color’s in its cheeks.
And we exult o’er end of snowy mud,
But old mesquites are without leaves for weeks.
The robin says that Spring begins its run,
But old mesquites must say that Winter’s done.
The photo is mine and the big tree on the right is an old mesquite.
© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2017.