To woo a season past? (Or was it passed?)
Why curt? Ah terse! She runs her merry way —
Find winter-rimes? Her words hang high and fast
Their color drains. Come stop their fall! O’ May!
These little plays on words she shan’t despise —
For how’s a fool to find a winter-rime?
This tone-deaf, gelid Winter blasts the prize
Unto oblivion! (That cloud-filled clime.)
O’ May! Be this or that but mostly this.
Yes! (This is so predictable in rime.)
To write a line and seal it with a kiss —
Emotion forces all! Sweet Summertime.
A touch of Gershwin in a minor key
Well-played, may curb her surly repartee.