Chatterbox: Inkwell

Woodlands: Revised Edition.

After reading lavendershy's somewhat insensitive-yet true-reply to Woodlands, I decided to work on it some more. So, here is the new poem, in full:

When spring begins,

The world comes alive.

Leaves bud and fill, turning a deeper green.

Clear water babbles and laughs

Beneath a turquoise sky.

The flowers dot the world like a million drops

From an artist's rainbow paintbrush.

A pale yellow sun watches the world grow, dancing and weaving through the snow-white floaty clouds.

A silvery moon travels through a black, cool night.

The mountains

Tall and shadowy

The guardians of the woods

Are shedding their snowy white tops

For darker colors.

Indigo, violet, jet,

They rise and tower over all.

Summer brings its blazing sun,

Orange now, drifting in the sky.

The world has gone lazy and hot, heated by the light of the dragon-fire sun.

Rain falls and brings relief, the creeks and streams turn to rivers.

The bright colors of spring

Give way to mellow shades.

The mountains rise over all,

Tall shadows, purple, black, blue,

Keeping watch on a drowsy world.

Autumn's first frosty breath is the breath of life,

It brings movement.

Suddenly all is run-around hurry-scurry,

Preparing for the long cold white ahead.

The leaves begin their change of wardrobe,

Slipping into cloaks of red, yellow, gold, orange,

Fiery, they make the world

An eternal sunrise and sunset.

Frost forms in the morning,

Pale, clear, glistening.

Leaves begin to float and fall,

Their brilliant colors fading to brown.

In the distance,

The mountains that watched through the summer

Have formed white tops on their peaks.

Winter is coming.

Run-around hurry-scurry and then...

Silence.

The first snowflakes drift down.

The last traces of the last autumn sunset have faded away.

The snow is small at first,

The younglings,

The floating, twisting, dancing little ones

That couldn't wait

And had to come down before everyone else.

Impatient,

They leap into the air, once, twice, thrice,

Refusing to land on the ground.

But down come the old ones,

Who don’t bother with dancing,

And the snow grows thick

And soft

And silent.

The world awakens late to a white morning.

The trees make a hollow, wooden sound

As they rattle and clack their bare limbs against one another in the wind.

Firs and pines have heavy, thick boughs

That shiver with every passing breeze.

Frost is a thing of the past.

The snow is here.

The mountains are no longer pure shadow.

White runs down their backs,

And gives their heads a nightcap.

Winter is a drowsy, quiet time, as is summer.

The world has prepared.

Now there is only one thing to do:

Wait for spring.

I actually almost cried when I read lavendershy's critique the first time, but the second time I thought it through and realized that she was right. Hope you like the new, improved (I hope) version! Tell me!

Andy says vgkc.

~Wolfgirl67 signing off.