Nancy Byrd Turner Poems

They went to the January house,
A house made all of snow,
With windows of ice, and chandeliers
Of icicles all in a row.
...

The house of December was all aglow,
Each room was jolly and red;
There were bulgy stockings ranged in a row,
...

The next house stood just back from the street,
In a gray little narrow lane.
A table loaded with things to eat
...

They went to the February place:
'Twas fashioned, with curious art,
Of colored sugar and paper lace,
With a front door shaped like a heart.
...

The March house, strangely, was built in a tree,
With a fluttering roof of leaves,
And strong, straight boughs for the walls of the house,
And an apple or two in the eaves.
...

The April house was near a pond;
It was made of reeds and of rushes,
All helter-skelter and out of kelter,
And ringed by gooseberry bushes.
...

Very familiar September seemed:
A flag-pole stood in the yard,
And the little path that led from the road
Was trampled bare and hard.
...

A green-thatched cottage was May's sweet home
With velvet moss for a floor,
And a clambering vine in the gay sunshine,
And a Maypole set by the door.
...

The June house wasn't a house at all,
But a level and leafy place,
Where a gypsy scamp had pitched his camp-
A gypsy merry of face.
...

The July house was an old, old house,
With an old, old man inside,
Who told them stories of other days,
...