Mud Season

The tourists just do not come anymore,
So it’s not worth our time to open shop.
Instead, let us work our way to the shore,
Letting our responsibilities drop.
Though the winter winds will still sting our face
As it tumbles down from the mountain top,
It portends the coming of summer’s race
When we can reap the green holiday crop.
But the moment now is for us to share
As we can pretend that the word did stop,
Gifting us with more time than we can spare,
Knowing that one day this leisure will pop.
It goes against all Capital reason
To enjoy the fruits of the mud season.

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