poetry by Frida

  Seasons

Winter

You have right,

the snow is white.

The ice is cold,

like the snowball I hold.

                                   Spring                        

The spring is here,

the signs are clear.

Say “hello”,

coltsfoot is yellow.

                                                        

                                              Summer

Apples are ripe,

and at school, we write.

And in the sky,

butterflies fly.

Autumn

                                             I wonder how,
                                                        it gets cold now.

First is the most slop,

but then comes the snow , we hope.

By: Frida Bratt