Our Seasons

Our Seasons

Our spring was bright with blossoming trees
And every loving thing that's free
With oranges, which being young
We ate like apples, peel and all,
Savoring tang of sunsweet fruit
And pungent rind inseparably.

Our summer was as summers are
A time to mulch and cultivate.
We learned that weeds grown rank and tall,
If then attacked with hand or hoe
By duty's lone, reluctant slave
(The other sullen in the sun)
Were often yanked with such distaste
That tender plants were bruised and mauled
And precious seedlings tossed away
In spitefull, careless energy.
Such weeds must be removed by both
When very young and very small.

Fall did bring fruit, as summer's end
Had presaged rather hopefully,
And with such grand munificence,
Neither novice could have guessed
Such amplitude could really be;
Fall flowers fragrant, richly hued,
Fruits firm to touch, delectable,
From plants so green and boldly -lived
That rankest weeds turned pale and died.

With three such seasons of the year,
What wintry fury can we fear?

Austin George Hunt And Mildred Tobler Hunt