In the Spring the ice storms come and the branches break from the weight
In the summer the sun burns the roses to brown husks before they get a chance to bloom
We complain, and it is less than what we wish to complain about, you never call,
you never pick up your socks, why did you spend your money like that, but not
In the fall the rains came early and there was no changing of the colors of the leaves,
why we are really bitter, why the years moving forward always seem to be
moving into winter.

Separator image Posted in poems.