Seasons
The sun glistened on the hill
with the reflection of morning.
The air, dry, cool, and crisp,
biting like the teeth of a badger.
The sky, a perfect pool of untouched blue,
blemished only by the sun.
It’s light burned to look,
but not enough to heat
the blanket of white
that lay upon the earth,
and withdraw it to nothingness.
I long again for the lush
greenery of summer:
the verdant cushion upon the soil,
the musical choir upon the trees
waiting to play the right note as the winds blow.
The breeze of summer,
a stark contrast
to the current assault upon my cheeks,
would caress like a lover,
soft and sweet.
Or the air, heavy
after the fall of rain,
alive with scents
from where the rain began,
that would linger on my skin
like fingertips
after a night of love.
The length of days
that expand to their peak,
then dwindle
moment by moment,
day by day,
allowing the night
to once again reign.
Without the juxtaposition,
one may not bask
in the love of the seasons,
for sameness quickly stales.
The beauty lies within
what comes and goes.
