FEB (May 14,1953 / Pittsburgh, PA)

November Cotton Flower

Boll-weevil's coming, and the winter's cold,
Made cotton-stalks look rusty, seasons old,
And cotton, scarce as any southern snow,
Was vanishing; the branch, so pinched and slow,
Failed in its function as the autumn rake;
Drouth fighting soil had caused the soil to take
All water from the streams; dead birds were found
In wells a hundred feet below the ground--
Such was the season when the flower bloomed.
Old folks were startled, and it soon assumed
Significance. Superstition saw
Something it had never seen before:
Brown eyes that loved without a trace of fear,
Beauty so sudden for that time of year.

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Comments (2)

a beer-havn't had one in years sugar problem but wanting another spot to dwell I know about that but alas all we got is here though a wish is always pure delight as is this poem
I am feeling a little lost now: (.................have FUN Dave xxx