On a February Day

Spring Time loves the South and cannot stay away.
He notes how winter hesitates before the hills that rise
gently into mountains, garbed deciduously grey,
where branches made to be adorned—by leaves or snowflakes one—
In breezes neither warm nor cold, can only sadly sway.
As winter frets to stain her white, majestic dress on mud
She could have frozen stiff, the Spring time sees his chance today
To catch the morning wind that passes bound for Tennessee
And rouse the drowsy grasses in the pasturelands to play
And fill the empty limbs with newborn pink and white, and cause
the birds to sing, yes, even if it’s only for a day.

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