In the Spring,
I struggled to learn
how to ride a bike,
catch a ball,
throw a ball,
and to execute
good table manners.
In the Summer,
I rode my bike
without you watching,
without using my hands,
I caught and threw balls
all day long,
and had the best of
good table manners.
In the Autumn,
I rode my bike,
only occasionally,
caught and threw balls infrequently
and didn't dwell on
table manners much.
In the Winter,
I shall probably
not ride bikes at all,
I will not catch any balls,
let alone, throw them,
and I'll likely forget,
just what
good table manners are.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem