By A. Gautam She's always sad in April,
even when flowers bloom.
She says it gives her a fever.
Summer gives her more gloom.
She looks out of the window
quietly, when it rains.
She doesn't dance, instead she says,
"The sky is sad, it drops its chains."
She loves the winters more-
to dance and ski, we're told.
The wool, the scarves, and gloves
She loves the white, the cold.