For Stefan Jones

These are the seasons: first, gingerfrost,
when cold and tropic heat combine together;
then pancakegrow, when at last we shed leather;
after comes sugarsun, without thought of cost,
the season when all harsh restraint is tossed;
and then comes pumpkinglow with its mild weather,
the time when each leaf seems a flying feather.
We know this when our minds in time are lost.
The factories that make our time are hard
workshops in far countries where there's no
restraint from taste, or sense, or decency.
We in this strange reality are not barred
from comment, though we long for chilling snow
to take from madness its long regency.