Carl Stevens' Journal: A Poem For Labor Day
Labor Day's here, and I think it's a bummer.
To me it means the end of summer.
The ink starts to leak from nature's pen,
The sun will soon set at five p.m.
The leaves will soon fall from all of our trees,
The breeze will whistle, the ponds will freeze...
The days get shorter and colder and darker,
All the bikinis are traded for parkas,
Sandals are boots that plod through the motions,
Gone is the need for suntan lotion.
Gone is the heat, the fire, the sun,
The sandy desire to be a bum.
Reality smacks the heads of us all.
There's a reason the season is called the "fall."
At the end of the days we're suddenly tired,
That warm summer air escapes from our tires.
But it happens each year...I should take it for granted,
Otherwise I guess I could move to Atlanta.
The grand hot weather that begins in June,
As always, is always gone too soon.
And yet the season that's about to dawn
Has some New England charm of its own:
The nip in the air, the orange leaves,
The way the earth shudders and gathers and heaves.
Labor Day's here...and it makes me sigh.
And I reluctantly wave the season good-bye,
But at the same acknowledge there are limits to sorrow,
For the autumnal sun will come out tomorrow.
Listen to Carl's poem
