Ice is forming on the stoop;
Cold winds make my spirits droop;
Bare trees frown, and snow clouds glower;
Pardon my descending lower.
Yet, (flashing back to last July)
There is not a single fly;
Lawns are not in need of mowing;
Boats are not requiring rowing;
We can’t broil ourselves today;
Picnics are some months away.
Winter begs that we employ it–
I’ll relax and just enjoy it.
by Ray Romine Sunday, June 17, 1951
