The oriole sings in the greening grove
As if he were half-way waiting,
The rosebuds peep from their hoods of green,
Timid, and hesitating.
The rain comes down in a torrent sweep
And the nights smell warm and piney,
The garden thrives, but the tender shoots
Are yellow-green and tiny.
Then a flash of sun on a waiting hill,
Streams laugh that erst were quiet,
The sky smiles down with a dazzling blue
And the woods run mad with riot.
NOTE: The woods are running mad with riot down here, for sure, because the rains have been coming down in a “torrent sweep” daily. Florida. Always either drought or monsoon. You just gotta go with it. More summer poems coming later. What can I say? I’m in the mood!