Yellow Rose of Texas

McAllen, Texas, just eight miles from the Mexican border---Today I went out in my back yard, where most of the plants are either dormant or dead due to some very un-typical cold weather last month. All by its lonesome, one "mid-winter rose" was blooming. Bright lemony, buttery yellow, it was opening itself up to the February sunshine, where it basked all day long. This is my first post on this blog that is not a poem. However, I believe this rose is poetry enough! Enjoy! And, by the way, Happy Winter!

A poetic tribute to this beauty is sure to come. I invite all my poetically-inclined friends out there to submit their own "ode" to a rose!

cory

winter in McAllen

(click photo to enlarge)

on one of those

rarest of days

in McAllen, Texas

when winter

has descended

ever so briefly

on the town

leaving lush

tropical plants

burned and blackened

(like no summer heat

can do)

the air is palpable

crisp and

deliciously cold

on church-going

noses

(the church-goers

all safely bundled

against any more

serious exposure)

the sun still shines

(brighter it seems

than in summer)

and flaunts itself

high in the sky

well out of

winter's reach...

* * * * * * *

fall into winter

day breaks gray

fall's gentle chill

hardening into

a bite

by three pm

good

summer finally rests

curled up

cozily somewhere

with a good book

or on vacation

maybe

on the world's

lower east side...

* * *

winter

lurks always

behind the facade of

spring and summer

and even brother fall

jealously demanding

tribute

angry at being

the least loved

season

stretching out

icy fingers

to grasp at

happy hearts...

* * * * * * *

the god of winter

It's very cold in deep south

Texas tonight---a place noted

more for its totally uncalled for

summer heat. They say it may

freeze tonight. The following is

from another winter here, eight

years ago.

I rush from my car
to reach the refuge
of my cozy little house

wind blows coldness

up against my soul

layers and layers
of clothing

skin and bone and fat

no defense against this

biting visitor

trampling downcast leaves
beneath my feet
golden yellow
mottled brown
discouraged green
I hurry up the path
but still can't help
but notice

the butter yellow

papaya flowers fallen

sadly to the ground

potential destroyed

fruit unborn

sacrificed on an icy altar
to the cruel god of winter...

* * * * * * *