Forever Springtime
By Cynthia Sager Schuckenbrock

When the sun of summer,
Beats down like a hammer from hell,
And its rays scorch the days like a branding,
I’d be at a loss to tell –

Why I’m still in Texas,
Smelling the parched grass bake like bread,
Watching leaves burn brown; the streams choke dry –
I must be out of my head.

And autumn is just a battleground,
Where the temperatures plummet, then soar,
And tortured skies spawn tornadoes,
In the agony of seasons at war.

And when the winds of winter,
Rake their claws across the land,
And strip dead leaves from the lifeless trees,
I try and understand –

Why I’m still in Texas;
Enduring the cold driven rain,
That sleets across the barren fields,
And transforms them to mud-tar plains.

But then one day the winter sun,
Isn’t as pitiless cold,
And tiny green buds on the branches,
Slowly - so slowly - unfold.

And from under mats of mud and decay,
That have been their frigid home,
Bright green grasses push death away,
And soon they’re no longer alone –

For other life is stirring:

From the tip-top branches, down gnarled old trunks,
Squirrels manically spiral down trees,
And birds begin to scold and preen,
In the strangely loving breeze.


A breeze that no longer freezes,
A breeze that has yet to burn,
A breeze that sings its song of life,
To small unfurling ferns.

It sings to the wildflowers cascading,
In streams that riotously spill,
In the colors of a sunset painting,
Down the gently rolling hills.

Those colors!  They’re bigger than Texas!
Those colors!  They’re brighter than words!
Those colors are a postcard background,
For gratefully grazing herds.

Cows nurse their calves in splendor,
In pastures of bright blues and greens;
And newborn foals kick up their heels,
At the yellowest daisies you’ve seen!

That’s why I’m still in Texas,
I’m in Texas for the spring,
Spring fever rages through my blood,
You know, it’s the durndest thing –

I don’t mind the skunk’s “Texas perfume”,
That scents the sweet night air,
And I know the mosquitoes will swarm again soon-
But I just don’t really care-

When the winter bites so cruelly,
When the summer dies in drought,
It’s always spring in Texas,
Spring;  in my secret heart.