PROSE | POETRY | SEASONS
Four Seasons Four Poems
Ice Candles and Summer Bonnets
Winter, with chilled treachery, turns her back to autumn. Without love, winter is grief wearing undressed emotions. I’m afraid; yes. No need for a therapist. I have shut myself away. In winter, the wise among us find shelter, not on the shoreline standing beside crumbling sandcastles, but beneath bare limbed trees, those rigged with stars, our dreams barren of comets.
Spring returns with all its Parisian hats and long walks. The strains of the music echoing under the maestro’s baton in the park, when streams run again through the woods, I could not have imagined that a season, gentle, suffering, under the weight of frost, could return as fluffy and bright as I remember, pushing off that distant cover of winter, and leaving me less fearful of contact once more.
Summer comes down easy, kissing the earth, sending a multitude of children’s delicate hearts into fields of Goldenrod and Burdock. Flowers showing off their colorful bonnets. Oh, summer, these heady days when we are all chasing something, as if the need to be off and running will never diminish, finding enough warmth to provide a feeling of stability, comfort, peace, and well-being, and we can see for a hundred years.
When autumn came over the horizon, there are things we lose, colors we gain, fearful of the bully following, autumn soon loses the will to fight anymore. The bench in the park is now empty. Where did the summer go? That time of my life when everything was at its best; when every morning brought new warmth, new ideas, and new perceptions. Clouds wrinkle, or close like theater curtains, sending us home, to the fire and a Cabernet.
Seasons, for the farmer, regardless of want, is movement on the land, not a disturbance, consistent, like my wife turning over in bed, her arm flung about me.
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