Fresh buds bloom on the branches of a tree
green seeps into the brown of the prairies
reminding us the cold did not kill—free
from the frigid snow and angry flurries.
Summer shocks, with her temper flaring.
Searing the memory of Winter’s howl
Cooking us in a flat frying pan, burning
away Winter’s chilly embrace and growl
All day farmer’s tractors leave patchwork weaves
on land that can feel the harvest fervor
Orange, red, and yellow appear. Dead leaves
fall-shrouding the earth for Summer’s murder.
Winter charges in, along comes the snow,
The wind brushes the trees silent and slow.