A poem

Barbara Dyer: Seasons

Sat, 12/07/2019 - 7:15pm

    WINTER

    Again it is winter

    Everywhere it is snow.

    Some people so love it,

    Others wish it would go.

     

    Maybe a “White Christmas”

    About some people have dreams.

    One can't please them all,

    Or that is what it seems.

     

    Some people go skiing

    Many others do not.

    They do shovel all day,

    And their back aches a lot.

     

    Winter is so pretty.

    As the snowflakes do fall,

    And the children go sliding.

    Yes, it's fun after all.

     

    SPRING

    Winter's gone; it isn't summer,

    But it is a new thing

    With the sun shining bright.

    Now we can call it spring

     

    The grass comes up greener.

    The perennials spring.

    The winter is over,

    And the birds finally sing.

     

    The trees now are budding

    And the church bells ring.

    Most everyone's happy

    As it's finally spring.

     

    SUMMER

    The warm summer is here

    We all sing a song.

    The days of winter

    Just seem so long.

     

    Everything is blooming.

    The sun seems so bright.

    Our spirits are lifted

    To a much greater height.

     

    Better-natured are people.

    They do need the sun.

    There's picnics and boating

    And all summer fun.

     

    We enjoy the four seasons,

    But summer's the best.

    I have finished this poem.

    Relax, and you rest.

     

    FALL

    It is now Autumn,

    But some call it Fall.

    Why? I really have

    No idea at all.

     

    Once summer was here

    Suddenly its gone.

    The leaves are falling

    All over the lawn.

     

    Days that were hot

    And now they are chilly.

    It happened suddenly,

    That's kind of silly.

     

    Why I am surprised

    The temperature falls

    It does every year

    Because the crow calls

     
     
    But soon what appears
     
    On the ground below
     
    Falls from the above
     
    The pretty white snow.

     

    Til Spring comes again

    I guess that is all

    The reason perhaps

    We do call it Fall.


    Barbara F. Dyer has lived all her life, so far, in Camden.