The killing fields
John Clare Stokes
Every year we warn the azaleas
the redbuds and the dogwoods
wait upon your bloom
wait at least until the mid of March
When winters blasts have passed
But they ignore our pleas
Fill out the bare limbs with leaves
Bloom in the finest display
But winter is a subtle killer
He only needs one evening
And in the wee hours of darkness
Spreads his frost upon the flowering
By morning the land is white as
Tombstones
As winter moves on
And Spring mourns her loss.
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