As Winter, reserved,
I resent this upstart Spring
with its public sex.
Well, speaking as Spring:
chill, Winter! Buds swell and burst
because they want to.
Settle down, you two.
I, Summer, do the real work:
irradiation.
I’m Autumn – your fate.
A year’s growth falls to the ground.
But hey, look there: nuts!
Chris Gill
Hot Cross Haiku 