Locust Winter Poem by Frank Avon

Leaves on the trees
are still spring green,
only a few fading darker.

The lime green thumbs
at the tip ends
of spruce branches

are gone - forest green now.
but on the tall top spire
baby branches have sprung forth.

We would have to walk a ways
- my dog and I - to find
the season of the week:

the locusts are blooming,
in creamy white clusters
dangling like grapes.

In my youth
we would have called
these cool rainy days

locust winter. Today
I call it
yesterday's tomorrow,

and celebrate
the little elderberry bushes'
ebullience,

the tiny green leaves
determined not to succumb,
to live on.