Poetry Sunday: December by Harvey Carson Grumbine
I went looking for a poem about December and found them mostly covered in snow. That's winter as it looks up north, of course. Around here, in Southeast Texas, things are considerably greener but evidently no one has written a poem about that! Ah, well, many of my readers live in colder climes and so perhaps will find the sentiments expressed in this poem at least somewhat familiar. December by Harvey Carson Grumbine High like skeletons grim The trees hold up their arms; The last leaf's hurried from its limb By the tempest's wild alarms; The river ripples gray and cold, And autumn's o'er like a story told. Deep in the lonely wood The leaves lie thickly strown; The timorous rabbit finds him food, The snow-bird seeks his own; The cricket long has ceased his song, For the breath of winter's cold and strong. Close to the level plain The snow clings like a sheet; The chimney moans as if in pain, Lashed by the hissing sleet; And all good men are glad to be Where the