December Poem by George Savige

The rippling streams
And babbling brooks,
These are the dreams
We write in books.

The birds, the trees,
And rolling hills,
It's things like these
That cure our ills.

I'm thankful for eyes
So I can see
The clouds in the skies,
A nice tall tree.

I can smell the ground
When rain is falling.
I can hear the sound
Of cattle calling.

One day when I'm old
And not in my prime,
I'll need not be told
I've had a good time.

For I will remember
With each passing day
The months like December
Will not pass away.