The summer was a pleasure – but, with fall,
The schools reopened and we labored much.
The touch of spring, with ardor, we recall,
But shiver now at winter’s freezing touch.
It’s winter and the sun is slanting low.
The oils are thickened and the gutters freeze.
It’s now December. So it’s three months more.
And I may groan, but others are at ease.
A season has its pleasure and its pain.
The solstice comes, with Christmas and with snow.
In winter, those from milder climes complain,
But winter’s children move with season’s flow.
It’s dark, although it’s only afternoon.
The sun is setting, though it’s just past four.
The speakers carol, “Shopping’s ending soon!”
For that’s the message, when it starts to slow.
It’s winter – and the leaves are gone. They’re dead.
But commerce thrives. The city is alive.
The squirrels sleep, and all the birds have fled.
But people stay up nights for deals – and jive.
There was a time, perhaps, when seasons brought
Their blessings, which were special then to each.
But since they’re now, in the nets of finance, caught,
“It’s time to buy!” is what their changes teach.
But when we strip away the layers new,
There still remains the winter of the past –
For some, like me, a payment that is due
For all that was, that simply couldn't last.
So no more walks beside the sounding sea,
No feeding now of squirrels or of birds.
No laughing skies and warming sun for me,
Whose only solace now is rhyming words.
But winter has a flavor of its own.
What some find bitter, others savor most.
And when the madness of our times is gone,
This season still will blow along this coast.
2013 December 7th, Sat. (first stanza & last three stanzas added 8th, Sun.) Bensonhurst, Brooklyn