måndag 14 mars 2016

poetry by Frida

You have right,
the snow is white.
The ice is cold,
like the snowball I hold.
The spring is here,
the signs are clear.
Say “hello”,
coltsfoot is yellow.
Apples are ripe,
and at school, we write.
And in the sky,
butterflies fly.
                                             I wonder how,
                                                        it gets cold now.
First is the most slop,
but then comes the snow , we hope.
By: Frida Bratt

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