My theme the seasons, the mortal year,  
I watch them from the windows here,
the trees, the plants, the blooming skies.
The falling light, as days grow colder.
 
Much was planted by my hands
Some prosper, others slowly fade
As trees grow taller, I grow older. 
My reach declines, strong limbs grow bolder 
 
I give way, the shade expands 
as roots draw strength from other lands. 
In winter months the birds we feed, 
Wild, they crowd in urban need.
 
Short-sighted men destroy the street
Urging fools to ax their trees 
The roads to speed, sidewalks to ease 
Our homes become a dark retreat. 
 
Our winter days a time to watch
from windows how the red birds fare,
the common herd of sparrow kind, 
starlings, finches, pigeons, always there. 
 
The light will fade, yet fires burn,
till trunks and wings and hearts return.
                        

You cannot count on when the snows 
will hide the ground and draw the flocks. 
January shifts its ground, confusing eager body clocks 
Some days of rain refuse to freeze 
Others tempt with softer breeze 
 
February, much the same, is also March 
Frost holds the ground, but seldom white 
Some days are mild, the roots to stir 
And thoughts of spring begin to whir 
Then freezing spells turn hopes to spite 
 
And then the month whose name is change 
All months now are seeming March, 
With chilly fingers in the wind
We stalk the sunny, sometime hours 
Looking for foreshadowed flowers
 
April doesn’t promise much 
Its fame for woe, the cruelest kind 
Fragile blossoms dare to raise a head 
Their health short-run. Prognosis: dead  
But green leaves creep into the mind
 
May days a pretty thought to think 
The sun too high to feel cast down
And yet a cold rain tastes of sleet 
And sandals don’t protect the feet 
A March-like gale makes lips to frown
(Did you put away that eiderdown?)
 
Happy the aged toes in June 
Happy the garden now in bloom 
Though back and hips may soon complain 
The garden grows from planters’ pain, 
Recalling quiet days of Zoom
 
Lush is flush in broad July 
If growth is meant, its time is now 
We celebrate a month of heat 
Till drought recalls a sad retreat 
And fickle sky reminds who’s boss – and how! 
 
[to be continued… hopefully!]
                        

Grumpy old white men are obsessed with their yards,
each little house a castle keep,
an enclave to manage clean and neat,
and cars to wash, machines to run,
a hardy substitute for fun
 
They fire up their loud device 
and chase the leaves down every street
their blowers keeping stripped and neat, 
while my poor ears forever pay the price 
 
They clear the land of all contagion
And I who am contagion’s name 
Strike fear in every hallowed nation: 
Other men – that is – are just the same
 
Envoi:
I am the country of leaves 
I am inversion 
I am the winter king,
     preparing for the sacrifice 
I am the torch 
and the bringer of ruin 
Surely the seasons will flow again