A New England Year

In New England, morning starts with frost,
So grab your parka—winter’s not yet lost.
By afternoon the sun breaks through,
And somehow you’re wearing shorts too.

The weather changes, mile by mile,
From freezing rain to sunny smiles.
You check the forecast, shake your head—
“Whatever it says, I’ll dress for bed.”

The potholes grow like weeds each spring,
A Massachusetts seasonal thing.
They bloom along each street and lane,
Then multiply with every rain.

And just when you think the yard looks nice,
Poison ivy offers its own surprise.
Three little leaves, so green and bright—
A lovely plant… until you itch all night.

At seven sharp, beneath your window,
Turkeys gather, gobbling like a band.
No alarm clock could be quite as loud—
They’ve formed a breakfast marching crowd.

Then summer comes with flowers bright,
Roses, lilies, gardens of delight.
You nurture every bloom with care—
The deer and rabbits simply stare.

You plant a flower, they eat it whole.
You plant another—they take control.
The garden grows, then disappears,
A salad bar for local deer.

But autumn comes, and what a sight—
The hills explode in red and gold light.
Fiery foliage, blazing bright,
New England puts on quite a show at night.

Then suddenly, the leaves are gone,
The color fades from dusk till dawn.
January comes with skies of gray,
And bare trees stand the winter away.

Yet through the cold, the rain, the snow,
The potholes, turkeys, weeds that grow,
The poison ivy and hungry deer—
We love New England, year after year.

For nowhere else can weather change
From parka to shorts quite so strange,
And nowhere else, beneath the sky,
Can four seasons pass before your eye.

So bring your coat—and bring your shorts.
Watch for potholes, deer, and sports.
Enjoy the flowers, dodge the ivy—
And welcome to New England: beautiful, stubborn, unpredictable, and lively.