ABC Poem, for spring

azaleas bloom cacophonously. dogwoods effuse flowers gregariously. happy iris jump, kick, line-march. nodding, ornate phlox quietly reaches, spilling tumescently upon very white xeranthemum's yodeling zenith. 

Spring Seedlings

Seedlings sprouted haphazard from last October's pumpkin,
the one I tossed into the garden in December.
Each day, we marveled at their progress.
Each day, we weeded and talked about how old
pumpkins turn into
tiny green sprouts.
We watched their fuzzy leaves spread,
laughed at seed pods still stuck on their heads.
But Old Man Winter could not stay away,
could not stand the new life popping up
all around.
He crept in one night and in his cold grip,
the seedlings withered away.
Only one little green plant was strong enough
to stay.

Garden Bed Haiku

Fallow garden is
a bed where my yellow dog
lays her head, dreaming.

Wooden Cross

Photo by Jason Clark, taken the day after the storm in Tuscaloosa

April's Showers

Alabama
red clay streams
through the backyard,
pooling at my feet
as thunder roars,
as wind shrieks and moans,
as trees bow their heads.
Oh Alabama,
even the earth itself
cannot hold back its grief.

Four Steps

The image I posted earlier of the four white steps has haunted me all week. A family in Boone's Chapel, Alabama was killed when a tornado destroyed their mobile home. Only the white steps and flowers remained. How can such a violent storm leave the most fragile life untouched? You hear stories like this all the time, and they seem unbelievable until you see the evidence. I just can't imagine what their relatives must be going through. My prayers are with them.

Boone's Chapel, AL

The storm
tossed mobile homes,
twisted trees,
flipped cars,
but in its rage
paused,
admired
the four white steps
flanked by newly planted begonias,
carefully
stepped aside.