Four Seasons by Ash Slade
the buckets up high
pouring wide on us below,
white mountain washed out.
flowers droop in rain
robin hopping on the ground,
compass pokes through clouds.
blacktop griddle hot
feet blistered and cracking up,
breakfast frying fast.
werewolf winds yip loud
witch's fingers scratch up panes,
dancers hitting ground.
Ash Slade lives in a small Connecticut town. He enjoys collecting poetry books, journals, and pens. In his spare time, hobbies include: spending time with friends and family, reading, and shopping. Past publications include The Blue Nib and Circus Of Indie Artists: Nevermore Edition edited by Dale Bruning.