Dad Poet Society

Lazy clouds are standing tiptoe on the tops of leafless trees.
Fallen leaves so deep the world looks like it’s standing on its knees.
Tender skies that spread across the land like bolts of light blue lace.
Their autumn gives the feeling that the world’s just scrubbed her face.

Misty mountaintops are distant, bending in the frozen air.
Rivers white in place of blue now; the ice has hardened there.
Air a-crackling soft in concord with the welcome crunch of snow.
The world’s a silent symphony, and winter makes it so.

There’s a clamor on the river like the coupling of a train.
There’s a rush throughout the village, for it’s breakup time again.
Through the snow-melt ponds and rivulets rush the unsung notes of spring:
a season filled with melody for all who slept to sing.

Now it’s summer in Alaska; all around’s a mammoth green,
one quick life to taunt the longer death that waits this emerald scene.
There’s a hurry to this season, boats all roaring to and fro.
Why should one so tardy coming be the soonest one to go?

Sing the seasons of Alaska. Sing the Northland’s grand parade.
Sing extremes of beauty natural, best of all that God has made.