Member Poem

April is the cruelest month but in June
There were brides and cake and wine; by
July there were exploding lights in the night sky, trembling and whistling,
  ohs and ahs.
August was passable but in the end it was dry and
September was mis-numbered and October as well;
By November we wondered if the ancients could count at all.
In December we just threw up our hands; there was lights
and music — but it was still cold in the end.
January was two faced with its swelling frigid sun and
In February came ice storms and the roads were deadly —
  once I did see the dead brown woods encased in crystalline ice in the
  morning Sun;
But by March that had all melted away into mud and slush and floods and after all that
There was nothing much left but for cruel April's rains to rain again.