Original Poetry: 'Seasonal' and 'What Animals Do'



Against its will, the sun was

banished from

claiming creation.


Dark brown bench,

entombed in winter,

folded into slumber.


Grass lived its best life, until—

hairpin cracks to the root

inch it to its death.


Jack Frost.

Knitted hats bobbing—

We’re late to class!


Morning was in mourning, but the sun,

never stronger,

opened the sky.


Persistent knocking

quivers the air—Hear it?




tap, tap, tapping.


Unashamed to shove its shoulder through the doorway,

vacating its prison behind the clouds. It pushes

winter away.


X-ray heat extracts clouds from its path,

yet coats will be

zipped to our throats tomorrow.



What Animals Do

A murder of crows

murder your ears.

A gaggle of geese

grab your bread crumbs.

A clowder of cats

circle your feet.

A tower of giraffes

taste the treetops.

A gang of elk

gloat in the valley.

A skulk of foxes

sulk near the den.

A romp of otters

relax in the river.

A watch of nightingales

wrangle the midnight air.

An assemblage of people

avoid each other.