December

 (This is a photo from my archives the way December used to look!
Today it is raining; there is no snow)

I'll follow up with a today pic later if I can.

The golden rod is bent now

Beneath December’s flow

The trees in apple orchards

Flaunt dazzling robes of snow

The gentian’s bluest fringes

Have sown to earth their tear

Time’s door on silent hinges

Is closing to the year

The sedges plant their keeping

In downy meadow nook

The afternoon is sleeping

Save for unfrozen brook

Down drifted lanes of morning

The eager children go

Shod with kind mother’s warnings

Those footprints in the snow

By all these argent tokens

December days are here

The month of joy and hoping

The month of Christmas cheer

Each season has its beauty

Each season has its strife

Their strands of hope and duty

Weave moments into life

We share its spoils of laughter

And bear its common woe

From heaven’s low-flung rafter

Sweet moments fall like snow

© Janet Martin

This is a spin-off from Helen Hunt Jackson's Poem; September

September

by Helen Hunt Jackson

  THE golden-rod is yellow;
        The corn is turning brown;
    The trees in apple orchards
        With fruit are bending down.

    The gentian's bluest fringes
        Are curling in the sun;
    In dusty pods the milkweed
        Its hidden silk has spun.

    The sedges flaunt their harvest,
        In every meadow nook;
    And asters by the brook-side
        Make asters in the brook,

    From dewy lanes at morning
        The grapes' sweet odors rise;
    At noon the roads all flutter
        With yellow butterflies.

    By all these lovely tokens
        September days are here,
    With summer's best of weather,
        And autumn's best of cheer.

    But none of all this beauty
        Which floods the earth and air
    Is unto me the secret
        Which makes September fair.

    'T is a thing which I remember;
        To name it thrills me yet:
    One day of one September
        I never can forget.

This is November's Offering:

November

The golden rod is brown now

The corn is in its bin

The trees in apple orchards

Are stripped of rosy grin

The gentians bluest fringes

Are shriveled, brittle fray

In broken pods the milkweed

Has flung its silk away

The sedges spill their harvest

In stilted meadow-nook

And asters by the brook-side

Have dropped into the brook

From frosted lanes of morning

The children’s breath-clouds rise

The ditch is all a-flutter

With birch-leaf butter-flies

By all these gilded tokens

November days are here

With autumn’s dismal weather

And autumn’s sullen tear

But none of this gray tinting

Which makes November drear

Can dim November’s hinting

Of Christmas drawing near

And I will share my secret

Of dull November’s guile

For soon it will be Christmas

And that is why I smile

© Janet Martin