Season’s Beatings

The cold air nips. The nose and ears.
Of Winter’s wind. I am not safe.
My numbéd limbs. Shiver with fear.
Icy fingers. Fumble to chafe.
Snow drops. Eyes close. My last. Repose.

Bounding across the fields of gold
Wheat, that tickles my bare feet, the
Life of Spring bursts forth, flowers bold
And bright and lovely. My love, a
Bud more pretty than any rose.

Oh, this heavy, laden heat that
Draws, draws the sweat, moist despair
In my folds, while we pant, laid flat,
In the Summer’s cicada air,
With no small relief to propose.

Orange Autumn, with dropping leaves,
Like morose soldiers of season’s
Dying out, the true mark of eves
Going cold. Now I have reasons
To fear the new year’s chilling close.

Photo by Jeremy Thomas on Unsplash