The Seasons

Summer, is a blazéd path set by the sun, yet not a fire from which you run, It harbors ice cream and lakes and bathing suit bottoms, And pictures of fish with the people who caught 'em. And when the fire burns out, we transfer to Autumn. Where leaves are dying from the earlier flames, And people cackle like death is a game. Yet I weep at the dying of life, White it is beautiful, the leaves and the trees, The reality of death cuts like a knife. And when the leaves are buried deep in their graves, On comes winter, snow flakes to mourn the leaves, And to mourn their lives, numbered are their days. So they twinkle to get their attention, They won't feel so lonely with social conventions. And as they die, they begin to bleed water, To turn white into green. To bring the magnificent sprins. Life-giving water births the leaves and the trees, Feeding oak, elm, and coconut seeds.