When the pale blue Norther finally
Pushes the heavy, wet air back to
The Gulf from whence it came in April,
We know relief, and open windows,
Ah, real air, not metal-smelled, but
Clean-scented soul conditioning.
Our pale green leaves turn vapid yellow,
Fool's gold compared to the great North
With her ruby maples and aspen glitter.
Living soil still holds tropical heat,
To grow fall color in clusters of
Purple and gold Chrysanthemums.
Browned grass and bare branches,
Temporary mortalities, remind us
Of the longer death in other climes.
Far into the frost and snow fall
Of the North, we swing on verandas,
Savoring this second, sweeter, summer.
©2009 Joanne Sprott
Previously published at her blogspot