Seasons
Fall, she dresses down, while
winter prepares for its rest.
Summer wears her greenest gown,
but never, ever wears a frown.
Winter can get grumpy;
if awakened, he’ll spit ice;
for he is a tantrum thrower,
of quite the ugliest kind.
Fall, she is an artist;
her palette’s full of reds, browns
and golden pigments;
her work’s outdone only
by springs color wheel, so fast.
Fall is rarely grumpy
and spring so rarely frumpy.
Winter plays unfairly;
imprisons spring within its alley.
When spring escapes,
she celebrates,
with colors mighty bold;
her time is up when summer,
comes in from the biting cold.
The seasons live such finite lives;
they take their piece of life’s sweet pie.
When they’re done with all their fun,
they make way, for the next one.
Copyright © M. L. Kiser | Year Posted 2014
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