It's time to think thoughts and write columns not so heavy,
and think not of stock market, high crime or mill levy.
Or Columbus (poetical license invoked here).
If you remember, back in Autumn, I penned a loving ode to Fall.
Waxed praises to the season, loving that one, most of all.
You may wonder, why for Winter I concocted no such ode.
Ah, dear reader, I did have one, but I flushed it down the commode.
But ere's the time my friends, yes, when Earth begins to sing.
'Tis the time that they say young men's fancy seeks a fling.
'Course I wouldn't know, oh no, no not me,
fancies forgotten long ago, long in the tooth, I sure be.
But you know that of which I speak, that great green, fresh-smelling thing ...
That season I love the best (almost), that season we call Spring.
Spring time in the Rockies, and how could we want more?
The sun teases and birds return, kick winter's cold butt out the door.
And just when we think that the warmth's really here to stay,
the wind roars, snow's deep, Bob McGuire we want to flay.
But finally the snow's gone, heads bang no more against the walls.
Dig the closets for weapons of tennis, and spank those fuzzy little green balls!
And into the sheds and garages for shovels we now roam!
Now into the back yard, turn over, fresh loam!
Sally forth to the yard now, wielding pitchfork and rake,
or up to the Rims, go you, your pasty body, to bake!
Winter's ravages are many, the old man's made the rounds.
What me? Put on shorts, and advertise these pounds?
The sight of my naked off-white flesh could make a healthy person hurl.
My wife says, “S'not that bad hon, it's really a 'mother-of-pearl.'”
Time will, later on, bring sanity's retrieval,
but I live with three females — there's emotional upheaval!
Sometimes it is best to stay quiet as a mouse,
lest I wish to find myself in the dog house.
Outside I will frolic and roll in fresh grass,
inviting all “reality” to just kiss my big —.
While in the back yard, sniffing breezes, what's this stench?
What causes me to get up from my comfortable bench?
“Oh my HECK!” I exclaim as my spirits they droop,
little gifts, piles of presents, in the form of dog poop.
But Spring's finally here! And why of this should I care!
The Earth's green, full of color, her best flowers she doth wear!
Hard to believe, yes it is, it's already fourth of May.
In no time at all, 'twill be a hot summer's day.
Know this thing we call Spring's borne on such a fleeting wing ...
So get off your lazy butt and get out there and sing.
For HOT it'll soon be, all sweaty and all sticky,
and getting close to someone might be kinda icky.
I don't like hot weather 'cause the heat's such a bummer.
You can bet yer sweet bippy, there'll be no poem for Summer.
So be of light heart now, and yeah, smoke 'em if you got 'em,
Soon I'll write praise for Autumn,
on that, just bet yer sweet bottom.
Copyright © The Billings Gazette, a division of Lee Enterprises.
John Potter, an Ojibwe from Wisconsin, is a gifted artist, illustrator and writer. After more than 20 years as an editorial artist and columnist with the Billings Gazette (Billings, Mont.), he now spends his full time and energy on his oils, painting the landscapes of the West that he loves the most. His work can be seen online at www.lonewolfgallery.com.
