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A day in November is often born,
on a frosty, foggy, chilly morn.
With the smell of wood smoke in the air,
while ruby leaves fall here and there.
The early light is soft, but yields,
a holy look to woods and fields.
A silent prelude heralds the day,
for song birds mostly flew away,
to somewhere north or south or west,
leaving behind their empty nests.
In November, without a rush,
days are born in a silver hush,
like a precious gift, for all the living-
Let all of November be called Thanksgiving!
Oh dear summer, must you go,
and take with you the fireflies glow?
Must you take the summer flowers,
and all the lazy, leisure hours?
Little rabbits and the songbirds
won’t be seen and won’t be heard,
The fragrant blossoms on the vine,
couldn’t one be left behind?
Must I put my spade away,
for such a far and distant day?
Oh, summers come and summers go.
I have noticed, none are slow-
but summer does not leave us stranded,
destitute or empty handed.
Seeds the summer wind, has strewn,
awaits to make their presence known-
Instead they wait with hope, til when,
The time called summer, comes again.
In May, the fields of sage turned white-and fireflies flashed their little light.
The scent of elder filled the air and not a single tree was bare-
The winter wheat was spun to gold and sunshine chased away the cold.
The “Quiet Garden” caused much ado, for roses bloomed in every hue-
The “Bob White” sang his name in May-and little rabbits came out to play.
May is too kind to leave us stranded, and does not leave us empty-handed-
Instead, May gave us, in good measure, a host of things to praise and treasure.
The smell of clover, I’ll remember, one chilly night in late September.
When January comes with ice and snow, I’ll think of May, when the iris grow.
In April, when the world is splendored,
when trees and flowers bloom unhindered-
for the danger of frost, has finally past,
and little violets abide with grass-
I vow , my time I will not squander . . .
And April is the time to wander.
I think to traipse, the whole world over,
with hope to find a patch of clover,
or to look for a wild and fragrant vine,
or to spy a redbird in a pine,
implores the heart, to pause and pray,
for the beauty of an April day.
Hence, I promise, not to waste.
a moment in April with rushing and haste.
Instead, I’ll stroll by field and wood,
and see April declare that God is good.
Today, outside the window, just floating in the air.
I saw a “flock of dainty wings” , and went to see them there.
I thought to write a poem about pink butterflies-
but when I went to take a look, I got a sweet surprise.
For it was a “flock of petals” flying in the breeze,
that surely came unfastened, from a grove of cherry trees!
The air got still and all the petals rained upon the grass.
Where they fell, I saw some violets, I may otherwise, have passed.
I will not rush in springtime, when the days are mild and fair-
For violets bloom in springtime, and “petals fill the air”.
When March comes to the rabbit patch, and wakes up all the earth,
somehow it makes the homestead seem to have a bit more worth.
For hyacinths and daffodils bloom across the land,
and the peach and pear have blossoms, when touched by Heavens’ Hand.
The woodlands, on the west side, where wild rabbits like to run,
become somewhat enchanted, when lit by Marchs’ sun.
The songbirds sing a prelude, and fill the air with mirth,
When March comes to the rabbit patch, and wakes up all the earth.