On the South Shore, where the salt wind sighs, The
earth still whispers winter’s last goodbye. In the hush
of dawn, silver touches the leaves, A final kiss of frost
‘neath the sheltering eaves.
Gardeners wait with hopeful, patient hands, For tender
shoots that crave the warmer sands. Tomatoes, pep-
pers, basil’s fragrant green— Hold them back till
June’s full moon is seen.
When the Strawberry Moon climbs high and bright, It
marks the end of cold’s reluctant fight. Then plant
with joy beneath the warming sky, The South Shore
summer waits—no more frost’s sigh.
So heed the old ways, passed from kin to kin, After
that silver glow, let the growing begin.
