Redbud and plum, a scattering of color along the roadside. Daffodils in clumps, revenants in the side-yard where someone once lived. Red, the ugly cousin of Sugar, right behind. Sweet yellow jasmine draped over yet-bare limbs, the witch’s apple to awakened bees. Tender buds swell — buckeye, gum and poplar. Sap rises, the pump that fuels the engine of life. Soon muck-bottoms will no longer hold a boot print.
Easy for a man to walk along, whistling Satchmo:
When the red, red robin comes bob, bob, bobbin’ along, along
There’ll be no more sobbin’ when he starts throbbin’ his old sweet song
Wake up, wake up, you sleepy head
Get up, get out of your bed
Cheer up, cheer up; the sun is red
Live, love, laugh, and be happy
February is not the time for these things, even in the Heart of Dixie. What comes in like a lamb goes out like a lion.
Mother is hard on the tender things. She entices and devours with the same toss of her head and a crooked smile.
The promise will be broken.
Purple and yellow blossoms scattered on the ground. .