Seasons
Come Winter, a busy scene, shoppers run down the street.
Snow chatters and wisps without the heat.
The trees are holding their breath,
Buds, their ornament stowed away.
Spring ambles in, a merry tune,
Played at the door of
The old saloon.
Buds pop in,
Forget-Me-Nots too.
Trees yawn their arms,
And shake their heads.
Summer bounces along, to the beat of my foot,
On the tray happens a lot of soot.
The sun swirls in the sky,
A yellow abyss,
And the port is filled with golden traders.
Autumn stumbles down the steps,
With its majestic parapets
Of golden-brown
And sweet apple red,
A barn owl makes a nest in the shed.
And a squirrel gathers chestnuts,
For storage.
Come Winter.