A Poem For the Season

Where I live,

winter is drab, and gray, and bare.

it’s not exactly frozen tundra,

            cross-country skiing,

                        snowman-making country.

no—it’s cold, and it’s damp, and it chills the soul

            right down to the bones.

in New England (says Kim), Fall is Fall, Winter is real,

Spring is late, Summer is a pleasant notion.

in Virginia, Fall is the only real gentleman season.

and Summer has no boundaries.

she begins her descent in poor spring’s term,

like a Democrat during a Republican administration.

she is hot, and humid, and relentlessly inhumane

            on the misery index.

people complain and sweat, and sit indoors,

peering outside, cursing mosquitoes

            and dreaming of California,

                        or New England,

                                    or Antarctica.

she comes in nicely, just early enough to relieve

            the blahs of winter,

but her true colors show when she begins

to fry the pansies too soon.

she promises a nice, long growing season,

only to turn and mock and withhold the rain

            for two years out of three so you can never really

            predict if it’s worth planting or not.

            supposedly, it’s an agricultural state.

            you know, Thomas Jefferson, Monticello…

                        we’ll see this year if it decides to be or not.

she far outstays her welcome,

pressing her flesh into Fall’s term as well,

like a Democrat loath to leave office. 

but like a gentleman, Fall quietly waits for her to leave,

and may even bid Winter a late entry, to offset her rudeness.

even then, Summer will still raise her head

and attempt to get the last word.

but once she is gone, oh the glory!

the colors! the clearest of clear blue skies!

playing outside is the greatest indulgence,

and the anticipation of Winter’s onset

            prompts even the air conditioned cave-dwellers

            to become outdoors-men.

eventually, Sir Autumn must give way to the Old Man.

Christmas is his redemption, but after that,

the only entertainment to be had

is to watch the writhings of weathermen and traffic reporters

            as they attempt to make news of wet and soiled roads,

            filthy cars piled up on the freeways,

            salt trucks with nothing much to do,

            and teenagers who have no school,

                        wreaking havoc in the neighborhood.

the presidential snowball thrown for the press corps is big news.

tomorrow it will be slush and grime

and our sad snowman will be deformed,

and we will peer outside, cursing the mush,

            and dreaming of California,

                        or New England,

                                    or Antarctica.

(c) copyright 2011

Kelly Mine