and the seasons changed,
not as much from what they are
as from what they were
and how I remember them.
Winter should be cold,
filled with laughing children
and giggling as they ride
plastic garbage can lids
at breakneck pace
down an icy white hill.
Spring should be fresh and new,
the rebirth of nature,
the awakening of the frost weary spirit
to the sounds of birds,
the smell of flowers,
and the promise of things to come.
Summer should be hot, humid and stormy,
filled to overflowing with picnics,
fireworks, and echoes of ‘Play Ball’!
Autumn, the most regal of the seasons,
draped in an emperor’s array of endless color,
celebration, harvest moons and hard cider,
should be the crowning glory of the marching year.
It’s what I remember, and how it should be,
yet this year; this season; seems all so much
more and more of the same old, same old.
Depressing, tedious shadows of things
that once were, way back in the past
recalled today, November, the last.