It’s finally spring. Here are some WITS student poems that celebrate the new season:
Posts Tagged: seasons
I will color the world light blue.
The sun will rise up.
The birds will sing a song
And people will dance all day long.
Dogs will bark
And the day will pass in front of me.
I will color the world white.
Snow will fall.
We will jump up and down,
Up and down.
The snow is bigger than we
Will ever be.
So we make snowballs.
by Dawn, 3rd Grade
The warm air.
The bright sun.
The flowers coming from everywhere.
The cold water like ice in the pool.
The shining fish in the water.
The people on boats fishing.
The beach way.
The people splashing in warm water.
The people surfing on the waves-it feels like flying through the air.
The birds flying in the air to their nests tweeting.
The smooth wet sand.
The white seagulls.
The animals all around.
Summer is the best season of all.
by Jack, 3rd grade
In the winter,
Footprints in the snow are always lost.
The snowstorm fills the fissures with cold, barren flakes.
But in the summer,
As the foliage gorges itself on the sweet water and the yielding sunlight that
Waltzes through the fertile canopy and brushes our skin,
We grow apart, and then again grow closer,
Caught in between the gentle dawn of spring and the drowsy dusk of autumn
Then turning our faces from the vivid, heated sky, away from the future,
And into transient, loving arms.
By Sophie, 10th grade
[photo by BenteMalm via flickr]
Autumn is a child dressed with long pants and wooden shoes. His hair is made of ripe leaves. His skin is hard like a tree’s bark and rough like dry grass. He is tall like a Christmas tree. His pants are orange like sunset, and his shirt is short. He wears a flowery jacket that his friend Spring gave to him.
In the afternoons little Autumn plays around the park and goes up and down in a swing. Leaves fly and he starts turning into different colors. Leaves stick on his clothes while they twirl with the breeze. Then Autumn plays soccer with other kids and the leaves stick on him because the wind blows hard. At dusk when the last leaf blows away from his body, Autumn lies on the grass until he disappears.
By Joanna, 4th grade
[photo by Burpythehippo via flickr]
. . . and when the spring got here
peace arrived, the wind would laugh
And I couldn’t help it but laugh too.
And by the twenty-first of some month
peace and wind would leave
And then you came here
Along with winter, with its cold,
And you taught my mind
That the days were easier in spring
That winter brings sorrow
For when the flowers die
And the trees are naked
I should run
run to a place where spring went.
By Montserrat, 10th grade
[photo by bossbob50 via flickr]
Winter, my winter, is no winter.
Turkey and stuffing make
delicious and my girlfriend
makes me so cool and cuddly
which makes my world
But sometimes the moon makes my mood
to the ground.
And then my dad starts to cook
just like my cozy mom
which makes my dad
into the best cooker-category in all of cooker-land.
by Michael, 5th Grade
The kind of person I was is not the kind of person I am.
Just a body,
A potato sack of nards.
A tree turning red against a blue sky full of mourning,
Summer is dying and so is my heart.
Voices flutter like the birds,
So free and blinded as their broken wings fight against the impossible,
Sitting in a window is no way to live your life.
Sitting in a man is no way either.
Mother was sewing and pricked herself.
She didn’t forget to wince but she forgot to bleed.
She went to bed without talking and no food.
Bright white skin matching purple bags of restlessness awoke the next morning,
Only to find her children had been consumed by adulthood.
I sat feeling the summer kissed skin surrendering to the pink.
The pink soon darkened,
Slowly turning my skin red,
Then fell to white as winter sucked away summer from my mind and fall from my eyes.
Every night filling halls fat with loud voices,
Just yelling so that the truth could never enter their ears
Lies were slapping them blind,
Leaving them daft and retarded on the floor.
I went away from the tree turning red,
Never to see it again,
To experience its beauty,
Its hatred of the world around it dying,
Bending to the winter.
I still hear the yelling.
by Tracy Jayne, 12th Grade
photo by flummoxed1 via flickr