Memories of the blizzard of ninety-three
are permanently stored inside of me.
February was gone, and we thought it was nifty
as we watched the temperature soar beyond fifty.
Daffodils were everywhere
and so were blooms of the Bradford pear.
Gotta plant my garden now was many a man’s dream,
as each one came up with his personal scheme.
Talk of a huge storm came on TV,
and we down south prayed, “Lord, help those Yankees,”
never believing that all of that fuss
had one single thing to do with us.
On March the tenth, Gideons gathered in Macon
for the ninety-three annual state convention.
The Cherry Blossom Festival was due right away,
and the cherry blossoms were ready that day.
A panorama of pink and white
in every direction regaled my eyesight
while pleasant aromas invaded my nostrils,
as sight and smell were completely fulfilled.
March 12 brought a huge clap of thunder,
followed by wind that pushed things asunder
and caused flower petals to billow like snow
as they fell softly to the ground below.
Snow then started to cover the benches,
and did not cease ‘til its depth reached seven inches
and it had affected twenty-six of the states,
killing 318, its power was so great.
Needless to say, countless gardens were killed
and countless gardeners’ hopes unfulfilled
as their tender plants lay wilted and black,
with no hope they could ever come back.
This recounted story should say, “Gardeners, beware.
Conditions today resemble those back there.
Resist that plant it now temptation.
Another frost is almost certain.”
© 2016, cbs