seasons

‘The ground parched and cracked

is like over baked bread.’

Thats a sign of the

season I dread.

The season I speak

of is one that I hate.

This season I constantly

ask to be late.

The season is Summer

most shocking and true.

It’d be the thing

I’d hit with a shoe.

Now you have your opinion

and I have mine.

My favorite one falls

on month nine.

The first line in this poem is not mine but belongs to another poem called Autumn by John Clare. The rest of the poem is mine and the line is simply what inspired the rest of it.