My eyes changed color, I guess summer’s over,
When it’s hot they’re the same as your average clover:
A very deep green that’s velvety and soft,
If you look too deep, you’ll yawn quite oft.
With the leaves they tend to turn yellow or red.
A stranger saw them, frightened to death.
They do blend in with the falling leaves.
Leaves are falling? The birch tree grieves?
When it gets colder, they become blue.
A bit like ice, but deeper in hue.
A friend told me they’re dots of dancing ice.
Like a glacier holding ancient cries.
When it gets warmer, they turn white,
In spring I can’t see, too bright.
Milky and useless they wait for summer,
For the bright day they can hear the drummer,
Drumming the rhythm of changing hues,
Green is coming with reds and blues!