Out behind the old white fence, where nobody had planned, A patch of black raspberries found their own piece of land. No one planted, no one knew just how they came to be, But every July they gathered there... like old friends returning free. He'd fill a bowl beneath the sun till the afternoon grew dim, A few for now, a few to share, the rest kept safe by him. Packed away with loving care for winter's quiet day, A promise made in summertime that never fades away. A little taste of summer during December, When the fields lie sleeping under snow. A spoonful of July can warm the heart, In ways only simple pleasures know. The garden rests, the north wind calls, But sunshine hasn't gone away. A little taste of summer during December... Brings back an ordinary day. Inside an old upright piano, polished smooth with age, Melodies from long ago still quietly fill the page. Ragtime dances, parlor songs, a fox trot now and then, The kind that makes forgotten years feel young and bright again. The old phonograph stands waiting there, beside an oakwood chair, Proof that some good things endure with just a little care. He smiles and says, "The world moves fast... but some things shouldn't race." Then lets another old refrain drift gently through the place. Some preserve a faded letter... Some a photograph or two... Some keep songs that time remembers... Some keep summer's sweetest fruit. A little taste of summer during December, More than fruit that's waiting in the cold. A little taste of summer during December... Keeps a little sunshine... for another day.
