'Tis Eighty-Four Degrees, My Ladies

'Tis Eighty-Four Degrees

The golden yoke of our sun breaks aloud,
cleaving through wooly heads of thunder clouds.

Birds trill songs of gray winter, now gone,
our week of wintertide--degrees, fifty, or fifty-one.

Away with our mittens and cloaks, no more freeze;
still in our closets hang our tanks and capris.

Hear now my ladies, the heat--how it begs
We must to our razors, and shaveth our legs.


Sandy Nawrot said...

And doeth our toenails.

Danette Haworth said...

And doeth our toenails, for Sandy is right

Our feet seen by all in the sun's brilliant light.

Charles Gramlich said...

lol. I bet some folks up Michigan and New York way wouldn't appreciate this poem.

Danette Haworth said...

Haha! It's only the truth!