The attic room still warm from the morning sun darkens.
Flotsam litters the floor as the wind gusts through.
Ozone scents the afternoon air,
A prelude to the coming storm.
Lightning flashes,
Thunder rolls,
A musical act to accompany the evening meal.
Dinner and a show.
Dessert is drizzle and a cool breeze.
Relief from the languid haze perks my brain.
But,
Still,
The cats remain flopped about the bed,
Snoozing and unrepentant,
As I begin to write.
The wind is whooshing through my window.
Gentle gusts and whistling winds,
Serving notice,
Spring is here!
Busy bee,
To your hive do flee.
Hibernate quick,
Before winter's cold kiss.
Dream of spring and pollen,
And warm sun drops of gold.
4/6/10: I guess bees don't really hibernate. they become torpid and form a huge mass in the hive about the size of a football to conserve heat, frequently rotating from inside to outside and back in. However, I am going to let my little poem stand.
