Seasons

A Poem by Nat Sav

And snow waits for frost's first winds, its icy gusts. It falls upon the frozen ground, and waits then too, for the children and adults to see its purity and smile.
And it basks in the warmth that comes from the cold, the sledding, the rolling, the creating, the hot chocolate after.
Frost enjoys the cold, the three-day-old mess of slush, the hard, icy layer above, the sharp icicles hanging from the roof, biding their time.
And they balance out winter between them,
cozy sweaters and heavy gusts of wind,
rosy cheeks and frozen fingers.

Spring: harmony.
Flowers popping out of the thawed grass, and the trees growing again.
Life.
The breeze gently breathing through the bristly leaves sashaying from the branches. The rain and sun together take the flowers, nurturing them, caring for them, amazed at the sprouting flowers.
And they are together,
the constant and the changing,
life and lives.

And summer, where heat and sticky air force pooltime and ice cream. Where the world's seasons want the people to seek coldness, to seek an opposite from what they are in; in the same way that they should push for safety in strife, and happiness in sad times.
And they are hand in hand,
strength and weakness.

Autumn, a mixture of vibrant golds and reds fading into orange and brown, waning, dying, ending.
And the beginning and end are the same,
starting and finishing as one.