Though many love the heat and frost,
I prefer the sound of raindrops hitting my rooftop,
And the rainbow of colors in the trees.
Like putting gunpowder on the clouds,
There are cracks of thunder, flashes of lightning,
and the raindrops fall like a sheet of bullets.
The ground unprotected takes the impact,
Like a trampoline that cannot bounce back.
After the firing the world is left glistening,
With the puddles that reflect what a world,
with no colour of sun would be like, grey
as the day before, like war.
Wind, an almost silent music,
makes the trees dance and the leaves fall.
As if the leaves were soldiers,
They cover the ground awaiting a rake, or a hand,
To take them away in a black bag.
Soon the battle is over, the grey gone.
Explosions of colour erupt from hidden gernades underground.
Many have fallen but new will spring,
This is the unseen seasonal war.