When wild, soft pink azaleas grow
where bluebirds sing beside the spring that starts a sparkling stream to flow through ancient hills past watermills to fill the creek bed to its brink, I tiptoe through the north bayou by water hole where hoot owls drink.
The dogwood blooms are tinted like the snow
that often falls when spring is almost here.
No snow forecast by weatherman although
the frost and freeze are sure to be severe.
The dogwood buds will guard against the chill.
A warming sun once more will heat the earth
and dogwood blooms will decorate each hill–
a scene to show this Ozark Regions’ worth.
Until the first warm, happy day in spring,
I’ll wrap within my blanket made of wool,
remembering that lonely cowbell’s ring–
to me there is no sound more beautiful!
When dogwoods bud in springtime, I am free
to answer to my Ozarks calling me.
A cool breeze touched softly
upon my face. Much earlier,
the sun had tumbled out-of-sight
leaving pink-red clouds
which promised the silhouetted
trees a warmer tomorrow—
a day without wind.
Quietness settled comfortably
about the mountains.
Newly awakened flowers
perfumed the evening
with their presence.
Their colors, tomorrow,
in the sunlight
the artist’s pastel paints.
I chose to be content
with this fair evening
in April, if only
the moment would
last long enough
for me to savor