I think November has the edge
On other months. Forget the hedge;
All sign of garden work is gone;
Coil up the hose, ignore the lawn;
A pox on trees; neglect the vines;
Nor note the spading fork has tines.
And please recall, while we ‘re abolishing,
It’s much too cold for auto polishing.
The picnic table’s come to lodge
Folded up, in our garage;
The outdoor fireplace, from here,
Must stand unfired almost a year;
And where, one asks in faint surprise,
Are those mosquitoes, gnats and flies?
Give me a chair drawn near the fire
And I’ll relax. But I’m a liar- –
What spoils contentment’s perfect cup?
There’s Christmas shopping coming up.
by Ray Romine Tuesday, July 4, 1950
