I Stare Up at the Clouds

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
This one is about winter, spring, summer, and fall.

Submitted: February 20, 2011

A A A | A A A

Submitted: February 20, 2011




I stare up at the clouds, moving swiftly across the bright blue sky.

The little specks are birds, racing the clouds to the end.

They dash in and out, in and out again,

never tiring of energy, they could go for days.

They flap their giant wings, and their many small ones.

They will race the clouds forever, never failing their job.
But they rest sometimes, on the tops of trees, and in meadows,

the breeze blowing slightly, moving the thin twigs like waves on the ocean.

The tree taps its branches, upon the glass pane,

tap, tap, tap, over and over again.

The cold wind blows over the lake, making the waters rise.

The animals huddle together, the lake gusts blowing about their fur.

They raise their noses, their ears perked up.

Winter is on the way, they think.

The birds leave the trees, the animals to another place.

A shiny coldness falls, from the cloudy overcast day cotton-balls.

It covers the ground, the trees, and the lakes and rivers.

Like a blanket, being pulled up to tuck in a child.

The wind wraps its arms around branches,

pulling, tugging, in and out.

Its icy fingers touch the ground and sky.

The sun hides away, behind the black angry clouds.

The rain pelts the trees, like sand to stop the ice.

The brown leaves litter the ground, a cover of dirt.

Spring rolls around, like a ball down a hill.

Lazily, lolling, not really caring.

the birds return, like a dog to its master,

Cheerfully squawking.

The warm currents of air, chase away the cold fingers of winter.

The sun shines bright, like a lighthouse beam.

Plants erupt, the trees blossom.

Summer jumps, ready for the scorching hot light,

Like an oven, set for 400.

Fireflies, blinking in and out, a small glow.

The warm air runs, like a river through the mountains,

nursing the trees, letting them grow.

The leaves turn colors,

like a child’s creativity with a paint brush.

The leaf, orange, gold, and red, hang waiting,

for the breeze to come for them.

The trees try vainly to try to keep their fading leaves

from falling to the moistened ground.  

Squirrels dash around, burying their winter stores.

Their tails a line of fluff, like a feather duster.  

The shorts turn to pants, from yellow to gray,

sandals to shoes.

The lake ices over, a hard, solid coat.

The wind whips by, like a cat on its toes,

lightly, silently, nothing to say.

The trees stand frozen, unable to move their branches.

A thick layer of ice covers their branches, slick and slippery.

Snow, Life, Fireflies, Colors, Ice

© Copyright 2020 JuJu Vieth. All rights reserved.

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