Upon this frightful morning,
with the weather to be so cold,
the strains of night to run before,
the temperature to drop down to the twenties or less,
The coldest brutes of air move in, since February's whistle,
and make the birds, the squirrels, the plants,
to curl and hide their lives, from freezing as the leaves have, and falling from their branches.
They are raucous now, hammering their calls, but the plants, oh my, they've fallen, dear, and given their only lives.
Tomatos have thrown their selves all down, and laid their leaves before the ground,
The squash has fallen, its branches, down and turned the leaves to black,
And the pride okra, the one who stood seven feet tall, and leaves kept its fruit a hiding, have turned all downward, their stand up tall bodies have weakened with the night, and the garden which filled us with delight,
Can see no more, can make no more, till next year, the gardens gone.....
Ralph E Peck
Photo by Ralph Peck
In the Garden of Claremore, Ok
Kommentarer