Through skies of winter hues
No birds traverse to southern seas
The yellow grass lies sunk in sleep
In January
Month of blues

In February nothing stirs
My heart would freeze
In arctic breeze
Unless some hope of distant days

Can lure it into March
When meadow larks will chant
Their melancholy tune
I know
This winter will end soon

First week in April then
The redbuds bloom our spirits soar
And finally some birds return
From far-flung southern shores

May explodes in natural splendor
And thunder rolling on high plains
Brings storms that without fail
Will leave destruction in their trails

Crested buttes of prairie lush
Dappled by the blush of milkweed
June beckons us with western roads
As we follow summer’s whispers

The heat will rise and rivers dry
In July relentlessly
At a hundred ten some bovines die
Unnoticed on their pastures

August furnace month of terror
Burns up trees before they turn
Brings drought and grief to harvest hopes
And ruins crops of wheat and corn

September morn with coolness comes
And stately flowers face the sun
Cicada song grows strong once more
Before subdued by nightly chills

Stillness fills October skies
The land in motley colors dressed
With prairie walks our days are blessed
And star-clear nights our slumber

Again November is upon us yet
A memory of summer lingers
But winter will not want to wait
And stretches out its fingers

The year is up the birds long gone
White naked arms of cottonwood
Midwestern blues will follow soon
If seasons are misunderstood