Seasons

I started writing poems in elementary school, though I didn't think to save any. The earliest surviving relic of my writing dates back to middle school, to Mrs. Babbitt's English Class. As a class project, I opted to write a book of poems. The book contains 13 poems, and is illustrated in a fine manner with construction paper cutouts. I happen to think it's a masterpiece, thought Mrs. Babbitt only gave it 8 points out of 10.

I don't think Mrs. Babbitt liked me very much. She once yelled at me for being too quiet.

The book is called 'Seasons,' and it has three poems each for spring, summer, fall and winter. I guess you could say that in a way I haven't come very far, because my big sophisticated book of Garnet's grown-up poems contains a section each for, you guessed it, spring, summer, fall and winter.

Over the coming days I am going to present 2 poems for each season, one from my construction paper book and one from my grown- up book. We'll start with Spring...

Spring is Here
by young Garnet

Spring is very nice, you know
There isn't any cold.
Now warm winds are here to blow,
and leaves begin to unfold.

Spring is all so fresh and clean,
Because it rains so hard.
Soon everything is turning green
It brightens up the yard.

This is the time, as you must know,
to plant a garden of flowers
And in the summer you can hoe
to pass away the hours.

Grown-ups are relieved by Spring
Because the roads are clear.
Of the sliding and the slipping
They no longer fear.

Eat the Weeds
by grown-up Garnet

The irony of all my toil,
An early start with potting soil,
In April sun on windowsill-
You’d think the special treatment will
Give pampered plants starting jump...
I dreamt of red tomatoes plump...

But somehow they look second rate;
I mourn their limp, bedraggled state.
I set them out a week ago
When gone was risk of frost and snow
With fervent hope that they would grow
Faster than the weeds....

The thing that’s most incredible
About these weeds, you know-
They’re tender, young and edible,
As if intent to show
My ’hothouse’ efforts are in vain
And I’d do better to refrain
From forcing plants on windowsills
And bending nature to my will...
Relax, let nature sow the seeds-
Then smell the flowers and eat the weeds.
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