This week's Poetry Bus is driven here by Kat, and our task is to take the name of our favorite pub, turn that into characters, and write a fun poem with these characters. Well, my favored place for a beer and a big-screen rugby match happens to be called the Garden Ice. Who knows why. Neither "garden" nor "ice" is french, and when you put them together it still doesn't say anything.
I leapt up in the morning
happy for Saturday
bright sun through the window
cats fervently wanting out
Let's go out and pick fall leaves from the lawn
and taste the last apples from the trees.
I open the door
and the cats come barreling back in
It's cold out, Mom!
the garden is covered in ice!
December has come.