Category: Seasons

Wind-whipped tree and bowling cloud
Sing October’s praise aloud;
Every falling, colored leaf
Dances in unfeigned relief ,
October is a landscape-tinter
Without a touch of dread for winter!

by Ray Romine Sunday, October 13, 1946

In winter-time one shovels snow;
In summer, there is grass to mow;
In autumn one must rake one’s leaves;
In spring it’s garden. One perceives
There is no season one can mention
Undeserving of attention.

by Ray Romine Wednesday, October 31, 1951

Confined within iced winter walls,
My spirit still has days it sings,
Consoled by sight of Floral shops,
And memories of other springs.

by Ray Romine Sunday, February 8, 1953

The Almanac declares you’re here-
It’s up to you to prove it, dear!

by Ray Romine Friday, February 16, 1945

This is the month when tired old Summer drags
Reluctant feet across the leaf-strewn stage,
For currently a newer, younger, rage
Begins performance with a swirl of flags
And bright confetti. And this gypsy’s rags,
While colorful by almost any gauge,
Are not the point of focus; no, her sage
And nimble fingers pluck; a garment sags.
On goes her dance, as we all to a man
Lean forward, breathless, in the hope to catch
Some different angle as she shows her tan
Becoming self. As just the smallest patch
Remains to doff, November comes to stop
A stripper who’d be good to that last drop.

by Ray Romine Friday, October 1, 1948

There are some things about the fall
For which I do not care at all.
The smell, as I have often stated,
Of burningleaves is overrated.
As for the color leaves are making,
Today they’re here–and then you’re raking.
For me the far horizon’s haze
Smogs over decent nights and days.
These appetites brought on by chill-
What of–I ask–the grocery bill?
The season has its good points, yes;
I’m prejudiced, I will confess;
I might like autumn if the sprinter
Right behind her weren’t winter.

by Ray Romine Thursday, October 12, 1950

October is a sunset splash
Of many varied hues;
October is a golden rush
Of stereoscopic views.

October is an apple’s cheek;
A frosted pumpkin’s gold;
October is a dancing leaf,
Over-rouged and bold.

That purple aster by the creek,
The blue horizon’s haze,
A copper-hued chrysanthemum–
These are October days.

October is a hectic moon;
A multi-tinted cloud;
A gay flamboyant butterfly,
Its subtler colors cowed.

Victim of the painters who
Daub at it on the sly,
October is an orange blaze
Against a turquoise sky!

by Ray Romine Thursday, September 30, 1948

November is weeping her tears of regret,
The leaves in a mass are sodden and wet,
A year full of promise is waning in pain,
Her hope too far gone for her now to regain.

Oh where is the mirth of clear April air,
The fragrance of iris in June’s days too rare?
or August with harvest for those who prepared?
They’re gone! And November is dull when compared.

November! Your tears show you prudent and wise,
By instinct give respite to all growing lives.
Each leaf that has fallen leaves scars you can’t hide
But too there are buds–a dead leaf justified!

by Ray Romine Wednesday, November 5, 1947

November ‘s leaden sky of grey
Frowns through the mists of newborn day–
Illumination to depict
A summertime gone derelict.

Above a tangled tent of weeds
Stand sentinel the toughest seeds,
And overhead, like genteel folks
The dead leaves whisper from the oaks.

From where the river mopes along
A bird’s drab feathers match his song.
Prosaic November’s craft portrays
A mosaic done in browns and greys.

by Ray Romine Monday, July 26, 1954

A wheeling, brown-black butterfly
Was dropping shadows blossom-high,
As, joyful wings against the sun,
He dodged a flower, chose that one,
And, finding it quite sweet and prime,
He sipped, and tasted summertime.

September authored this display
Which was, however, yesterday.

Today, September wears a frown.
The clouds, all brooding, gray and brown,
Are threatening, ferocious brows
Above a puckered mouth that vows,
With gusty breath, to frost each wing,
Each bud, each leaf, each summer thing.

The green and gold of Summer’s crown
Dissolves before September’s frown.

by Ray Romine Thursday, September 25, 1947