By: Alexis Barton
As Fitzgerald said,
“April is over, April is over,”
Spring sits with Winter on the bleachers,
Like unused seeds crushed by packed soil;
The growing season is over.
Drizzled showers turn to summer storms,
Fresh stems are tossed like ragdolls by raging winds;
Thrown to the wolf, the world.
When May calls,
“April is over, April is over,”
Little girls pass torches and move tassels,
Like hungry ants turning over crumbs;
The growing season is over.
Knowing becomes hoping, guessing,
Fresh minds are tested with riddles at Heaven’s gate;
Left to the wolf, the world.
As Fitzgerald hoped,
“April is over, April is over,”
Summer sinks her nails into the soil,
Like a toddler dragged from its crib;
The growing season is over.
Security turns into a distant memory,
Fresh eyes are covered by the hands of old friends;
Given to the wolf, the world.
Alexis Barton is a poet and student from Woodstock, GA. Her work can be found in Sheepshead Review, The Journal of Undiscovered Poets, The Listening Eye, and more. She is currently working on her debut poetry collection. She works as a poetry reader for Chestnut Review and attends Kennesaw State University to become an editor. In her spare time, she enjoys baking macarons, drinking coffee, and watching the rain.