Seasons

Be ye thankful for the seasons;
For each season there is a reason.
It is cold to kill ye germs;
When it's hot germs squirm.
Some are thankful for the cool;
Those who aren't must be fools.
I'd like to appreciate all seasons;
But scorching hot is out of reason.

by Maryida Horn

Other poems of MARYIDA HORN (2)

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