She does not have the glamour
Of her sister months at all,
She is between the winter’s dazzle
And the golden glint of fall.
She is plain, and drab and greyish
With a mien sad and stark,
And her thirty melancholy days
Slip by without a spark.
Yet, since at each appearance
With her air of being bored,
She leads us straight to winter,
She can hardly be ignored.
by Ray Romine Sunday, August 8, 1954
