My Seasons

As a boy I always loved the fall.
walking through a world ablaze with
yellows, oranges, browns, reds
and of course greens.
the array of color assaulted my eyes,
as the smell of burning leaves mixed
with the clean crisp air invaded
my nostrils.
Fires burn the dry leaves,
footballs are thrown about as
families finish their final cookouts.
As my feet crunch through the fallen
scattered leaves I feel a chill despite
the warmness of the sun.
My body though warm and snug in
my layers can feel the chill beginning
at the cold tip of my red nose,
and slips around the sides of my face
down through my hoodie.
As if icy hands are encircling me.
A warning, a heeding
of the impending...what?
My stomach knots up
as if I am in a car
on a rollarcoaster looking
just over the edge before the car
plummets towards the ground.
I feel anticipation.
and even in this cold fresh air,
there is a tinge of decay,
lacing the edges of the sweet breezes.


The colorful rich world then melts away.
And I am standing in a world of white,
the barren trees like skeletons 
bending in the frigid sporadic gusts 
of winter's wind.
The crunch beneath my boots is 
no longer that of crisp dry leaves
but rather that of 
thousands of individual
snowflakes, 
each uniquely designed,
no one like the other,
being trodden under my foot.
I look to my left 
as an impression in
the snow catches my eye,
an angel.
the whitest white of the snow
showing the purity of the manifestation,
and yet something so unholy about the
sight pulls the strings in my mind.
Though this world is a wonderland of
snow and ice. 
I feel only numb to its beauty.
For in the winter 
nothing flourishes,
winter is a negative space
a lack.
a spiritual wasteland 
of bland nothingness.
so unholy.

But then a change yet again.
The snow now melts away before my very eyes
into a damp world of green...
fresh, clean, renewed.
Spring brings back memories
of the times past.
a reincarnation of freedom
from the oppression of
the cold prison I have been locked in.
Spring renews a fire and a passion
in the dormant soul. It is another
rebirth of self.
Lovers claim love once more,
the poets' pens flow elegantly
scrawling long lines of beauty
into our minds and hearts.
The world comes alive once more
the streams trickle and bubble
laughingly,
the birds sing melodies once again.
even the sun so weak and powerless
in the season before finds a renewed
strength and smiles upon the world
as it thaws us once again.




I move now to summer,
the heat has grown,
the planet swelters,
when there is a gentle breeze you
can hear the buzz and hum.
The earth singing its lazy song.
As I sit listlessly, I drink in
the sheer simplicity of the season.
The earth's busy urgency
of spring's awakening
slowed down to a quiet lull.
Days can be spent with a delicious
text and an ice cold beverage
under the cool shade of a tree,
devouring page after
page of philosophy,
drinking in the knowledge
that life offers us,
but that we never hear
in the business
of the other seasons.
Some nights
the sky becomes an art pallet,
filled with fires of all colors.
Dazzling reds, Radiant blues, and brilliant whites.
As we lay in the grass
with its soft blades
tickling our necks
and our bare legs,
admiring the magicians;
and their paintings in the sky.
The lover's passion though
renewed in the awakening
intensifies with the heat
of a mid summers night.
Sitting on the warm pavement
and gazing upon the stars...
And as I close my eyes on this summer's night
I find myself in a world of
peace and content at long last
as if I'm wrapped in the warm hands of
the creator himself.
And I sleep...