Category: Seasons

Small boys have put in storage
Their masks, and let us hope
We can be as optimistic
For their tallow and their soap.

Some do not like November–
Ah! That perfect season when
It’s safe to wash the windows
In the house and car again.

by Ray Romine Friday, November 3, 1950

Now my grandfather tells me thet long years ago,
In the old days when men, sir, WERE men,
How it snowed when it snew, and it blowed when it blew,
And no maybe, perhaps, if, or when!

When it started to snow, people holed up, and so
There remained for six months and a day;
For the snow got so deep that the alley and street
Were not found ’til the following May!

How the temperature dropped and it never got stopped—
–It’s a wonder it’s not going yet–
And when spring showed her nose, and it finally ‘rose
Up to zero, they started to sweat!

Now my grandad at figures was never much good–
Subtraction’s his chief mystery;
But where winter’s concerned, he can sure MULTIPLY
Just take it, dear reader, from me.

Grandpap told the truth once or twice in his life,
And it might be he’s telling it now;
But for sweet winter’s sake, I still think he could make
Ananias look foolish, and how!

by Ray Romine Saturday, September 10, 1938

The colors tell the season: summer’s end
Is heralded by yellow, and the trend
Away from green has hit the poplar trees
And locust leaves that ride each hint of breeze.
The chlorophyll in grass begins to slow;
A goldfinch adds his lemon to the shov;
And you can see, in any country mile,
Corn’s jewelled ears set in a golden pile.
The surest sign of summer gone to bed
Is yellow pumpkins stacked against a shed!

by Ray Romine Saturday, June 26, 1954

The car is starting harder? Then
Bid summertime goodbye again.
But when the thing won’t start at all,
It’s winter, and no longer fall.

by Ray Romine Thursday, October 11, 1951

I know this wind that shakes the trees
Converts, come spring, to April’s breeze;
I know it opens winter buds,
Crocuses, and eyes of spuds,
And brings out marbles, kites and skaters,
Garden tools and teen-age daters.
Knowing affects, though, not at all
Its rattling my morale in fall!

by Ray Romine Wednesday, April 25, 1951

October’s here: the day is fair;
The sun has warmed the night-chilled air.
With every gust of zesty breeze,
Leaves are taking leave of trees
To form a rug of varied hue
Upon the lawns and avenue.
And yet despite this summer’s day,
A note of winter has its say,
For this same wind today would go
So very well with ice and snow!

by Ray Romine Thursday, October 24, 1946

I’m never quite sure whether spring
Is a season about which to sing
In terms of starry dew-eyed rapture
Poets are alleged to capture,
Or whether, brushing veils aside,
I ought to pan its dismal side:
Its rain, its head-colds, and its wind;
Its recklessness undisciplined.
But whether you like spring or deplore it,
You cannot honestly ignore it!

by Ray Romine Saturday, September 15, 1951

Ah spring, ’tis here, the poet croons;
Birds strain themselves with vernal tunes;
Buds get all hepped up and uncurly,
To open leaves a week too early,
And one odd class of mankind shows
Excitement over spades and hoes.
Me thrill to spring? Just let it pass–
It’s almost time to cut the grass.

by Ray Romine Thursday, April 3, 1952

April showers are s’posed to bring
Flowers in May and everything
But raining every day this way
Is gumming up the works, I’d say.
Flowers can’t stand this spring at all
Unless they’ve learned to swim since fall.

by Ray Romine Saturday, April 15, 1933

The goldenrod’s bright yellows indicate,
With ironweed’s purple, quite a gaudy type,
And August is. Beyond the pasture gate
There is a watermelon thumping-ripe.

As every ear-worm spawned by Satan knows,
The fields are full of red and yellow corn,
And small now, down between the husky rows,
A pumpkin-face is waiting to be born.

A Monarch butterfly in richest sheen
Stops on a zinnia, and sits embossed
In priceless art. Let August paint the scene-
Too soon she hands the brush to old Jack Frost!

by Ray Romine Wednesday, March 31, 1954