I.
Spring is a fantasyland.
Wooden castle, my fief,
a place I hide-and seek.
Crouched in the steeple
a Quasimodo, soon to sleep.
II.
Summer is a tire swing.
Green dragon, I've sworn
to the king we're conquering.
Brave knights, twirling and giggling,
we hold on tight.
III.
Fall is a wobbly belt.
Wooden drawbridge left open.
Cool cave for a young vassal
to turn my pages
like skittering leaves.
IV.
Winter is an empty play yard.
Abandoned bailey, where I’m crowned nobility,
by default; the last one.
The too short rung.
Final slide down dragon's tongue.
V.
Seashell clouds wash ashore
old dreams of early spring,
before battlements were raised.
Yarrow and swallowtail butterflies,
cabbages and kings.
Adulthood offers no place to hide;
I miss the feudalism of being a child.
GloPoWriMo #23 Now, try to write a poem of your own that has multiple numbered sections. Attempt to have each section be in dialogue with the others, like a song where a different person sings each verse, giving a different point of view. Set the poem in a specific place that you used to spend a lot of time in, but don’t spend time in anymore.
Yard Sale of Thoughts 
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