A poem I wrote in 8th grade(2018-2019) about southern culture and seasons.
Sun is smiling, clouds are dancing,
The bees run joyfully through the sky.
Sweet nectar drifts on the wind,
And the tea bags boil in the kettle.
As my drink is poured, the ice floats softly,
I rock quietly in my chair staring at the bright blue sky.
I listen to the lovely rhythm,
Of the bird’s springtime song.
The sky turns dark, the clouds angrily roll in.
No time to play outside,
See the rain pellet the ground.
Lightning crashes, thunder screams.
Moments later, the clouds walk away calmly,
And an array of colors arches my yard.
Puddles reflect a lovely blue,
And the bird’s sing their joyful summer strain.
Leaves like chameleons,
Shifting their color for the change in season.
Red, orange, yellow, brown.
We come to feast on food,
Turkey, cranberry sauce, corn, and so much more!
The parade marches on the television,
And we take the time to give thanks for what we earned.
Leaves soon gather into piles,
As children run and play,
Very little birds sing their thoughtful ballard.
Cold sweeps in,
The trees, bare, shake viscously.
Icicles line the decks,
But there is no sight of snow.
No, not here in the South!
No sign of animal life, not a single chirp.
The cold settles in more,
But the anxious children await--
Waiting to hear the jolly words;
“Ho Ho Ho!”
Excitement flows through the young ones.
Bright smiles look up,
With much appreciation and thought.
Quietly, hymns rise from churches.
Joyously celebrating this year.
Soon, the birds melody is heard again.