A poem

Barbara Dyer: Seasons

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


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.



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.



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.



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.