Category: Seasons

The sun of April warms us now;
The farmer smiles behind his plow;
The flower borders beam and lilt;
The postman’s cap has extra tilt;
The weeping willow, much in keeping
With this bright season, leaves off weeping;
And this month when it rains, it’s very
Nice to know it’s temporary.
It’s hope the eager robins sing,
And every step of sod has spring!

by Ray Romine Tuesday, April 1, 1952

Autumn
Brought ’em.

by Ray Romine Monday, October 15, 1951

October’s wind expressed some doubt
That it could hold together
Beyond at most a week or two
Of such sun-perfect weather.
But Indian Summer ends–remember?
Too suddenly, it’s gray November ….

by Ray Romine Friday, October 19, 1951

Footsteps stir September’s leaves;
Ants point the air and hurry home;
The wind incontinently grieves
Beneath the sky’s forbidding dome.

Dried flower heads bow low in fear;
Dust rises in a giddy spin;
The clouds eke out one small tight sear
For summer–and the rains begin.

by Ray Romine Monday, September 10, 1951

Let January breezes
Have their frigid fling:
Imagination teases
Me with thought of spring,
For snow, its white perfection
Whirling towards the lake,
Knows just which direction
Apple-blossoms take!

by Ray Romine Wednesday, January 8, 1947

There shrills a lone cicada, singing late,
From somewhere down about the barnyard gate,
And sounding overhead the nighthawk’s rasp
Spells finish to the insects he can grasp.
The yellow stab of noon has turned into
The mellow sof tness of a sunset’s hue,
And in its light, with that of evening star,
Things Iose their glare to look like what they are.
The scene will change again, though, very soon:
An aura in the east foretells a moon.

by Ray Romine Wednesday, March 31, 1954

The line fence leered out of an August fog
This morning, and on every stump and log
Gray moisture globules winking wetly, tossed
Reflected light about like early frost.

My neighbor-friend, elbowing through the gray,
Passed me half-way upon our mutual hill
With chores upon his mind. He paused to say,
“You almost need a coat against the chill.”

On such a day as this–who can say when–
Slow chemicals begin reaction then,
And in accordance with some ancient, long-lost charts,
Tired summer yields the reins, and autumn starts.

by Ray Romine Wednesday, March 31, 1954

O birthmonth of the famous men,
Your weather makes me snort.
Your greatness lies, in my own eyes,
In merely being short!

by Ray Romine Sunday, January 20, 1952

Don’t think that cynicism
Has me too well immersed
When I say the buds are swelling,
And I hope they burst!

by Ray Romine Wednesday, April 9, 1952

The flowers that bloom in the springtime–hotcha!
If the backache hasn’t, the blisters hsve gotcha.

by Ray Romine Thursday, April 12, 1951