Like the Seasons

It’s awfully cold outside.

It’s hard to believe that snow

might fly in just a week.

Everything is still so green, alive.

How can winter come too quickly

and bury summer alive?

The seasons are merely a cycle of life.

Winter is death, but with every death

there is a life, which is spring.

Spring is a child a sense.

Playful and coming to life.

We peek out our windows and

shed our heavy coats.

The animals come from their homes

and resume their lives.

Its young, full of life, adventure,

and beauty.

Next come summer.

Not as rich with life, but plentiful in

pleasure.

Bonfire, beaches, bikinis.

It’s matured enough that

the wonder has worn off,

we accept the heat.

We don’t even think about

the first flower we saw

as the ice melted away or

the first day it was warm enough for shorts.

It’s matured just enough.

It becomes more intense though,

students dread the closing days,

the heat becomes uncomfortable,

cutting grass lost its fun.

Fall follows closely,

and what a beautiful bloody virus it brings.

Along with sniffles and coughs,

the trees are riddled with reds and gold’s,

and the ground is riddled with death.

At this point we accept winter is near,

we no longer dread it,

we prepare.

We buy shovels, we pack up our shorts,

and when the first snow falls

we glance out our windows

and smile a little bit because it’s beautiful

on the other side of the pane.

We let winter coat us and our lives

in cold white blankets.

We fold our arms

and crawl into our warm caskets respectively,

and we die a little bit too.

Yet as stressful as winter

and its hanging omen of dread and death,

we look ahead because we know that soon,

we’ll see the hint of a flower

poking out of the slick ground,

and all will be in order again.

Reviews

[grams]

Such a sad young lady your poetry is remarkable though.