Hijacked

When Winter gets in a hurry, sending more than a flurry,

When he gets in a rush, turning flowers to mush,

When the pumpkin on the step has lost all its pep,

When the grass, still green, can now be seen

Poking up through snow, where no one can mow;

When the pampas grass, standing ten feet high,

Lies down on the ground like it's ready to die;

When the leaves in the trees, oh, the leaves in the trees,

No longer green, have lost their sheen,

No longer orange, or yellow, or red, 

Just ugly brown and dead, instead,

Piled up on the ground in a dismal mound;

And lofty branches, heavy with snow, 

Come crashing down to the ground below;

I feel like Winter has hijacked Fall, and I don't like it, no, not at all.

*******

I hope Indian Summer will come, right on cue,

So Fall can remain until Winter is due,

Then, part of December, and January, too,

Will be Winter's domain, with Winter's blue hue.

But in February, I hope and I pray, 

That Winter will see what is heading its way:

Then Spring will slip in on the wings of a breeze,

Look Winter in the eye, and say, "If you please,

You no longer seem so big and so burly;

Watch out, 'cause this year, I'm coming early!"