SENSING THE SHIFT, A SONNET

Spring too soon, the cotton tree flowering

scarlet before its dry leaves fall,

their palmlike clumps

bunched dead yellow,

still bound to oozing branches

pumping sap and sunlight.

I’ve put my winter clothes away

as if outside of time.

A sudden, chilling gust

shakes the cotton’s pistils,

saying wait, winter yet will end.

How strange a single tree

where flowers and leaves contend.

I raise my head, the vaulted sky

spilling bright red flames.