This very short poem explores what a conversation might sound like between anthropomorphic personifications of the four seasons. They’re all a bit melodramatic but you would be wouldn’t you, if you were a season. Seasonhood probably lends itself quite well to drama and arrogance.
The Seasons Whispered
The Springtime whispered All will grow
The Summer whispered All will burn
The Winter whispered All will go
The Autumn whispered Bog off Winter, wait your damn turn