There is something about a red-bud tree
That gets down deep inside of me.
It scatters, when soft new winds mill,
Its two-tone pink across the hill;
A traffic-cop upon a spree,
Stopping every passing bee;
Or neon sign, effective, clear,
Flashing madly “Spring is Here”–
(Spring settles, sighs, and tarries where
Grow red-bud garlands for her hair.)
by Ray Romine Wednesday, April 18, 1951
