Seasonal Gripes…

Grounds hot,

Rains not,

Fogs made,

Visibility fades…

Rain falls,

On the trees it stalls,

Dribbles down,

Eventually ending games of baseball…

After rain wind blows,

Grass & gardens do grow,

Pollen does impregnate,

Till man does the grass mow…

We complain of winter,

Too cold, too much snow,

Can’t drive fast, must go slow,

Yes we certainly do reap what we sow…

The winter over,

Now does grow the clover,

The heat we now do of complain,

We sure do bitch a great deal,

Of this earth our only domain…

            © ed ~ 6/11/05