summer hot gets weary down my neck
yet soon I will reflect on how bright she was
and dreary autumns falling leaves then
will i disrespect

Might I remember then all the
green and bright suns, standing among the harvested
cut down corn rows?

Or will I just curse another season?
Rue all the skeleton limbs with
bare fingers reaching to
the grey sun?

Too, soon will be November, and soon after
December, and her cold winds, the freezing rains,
the scant angles of the sun I cursed
in June so glaring.

I try to remember, the seasons, my fathers
taught me better, yet, I find something
to complain about.