Poems

Leap Year

All the years of grown’n up, “leap year,”
Just meant an extra day of cold and grief.
In the gruesome days of February,
Before you could turn a calendar leaf.

For years I’ve always calculated,
Without that extra day in there.
By the time I turned eighty,
I’d be breathing younger air.

Saddled with all the daily ranch work,
I never bothered with the solar spin.
We just had our yearly chores,
That we’d do over and over again.

Back in the early days of grades,
Far out in a country school.
Our teacher taught us a little riddle,
That became a Golden Rule.

That we could use throughout our lives,
To remember each month’s days.
And recite it on command,
Even in our foggiest lackluster haze.

But I’ve always done things my way,
To keep track of days gone by.
They say dyslexics do that,
So here’s my version why.

Thirty days has September,
April, June and November.
All the rest have thirty one,
Except “January,” that on certain long winters has “forty some.”