Winter Comes Round Every Year


In the green bright growth of spring,

all the world seems to blossom,

all the sounds are voices of the young.

In spring, winds may topple nests,

rain may drench gardens,

but there is always time for games,

always a place to play.


In the high hard heat of summer,

all the petals seem to melt,

even thunderís voice is hoarse.

In summer, the earth may parch

and growth may slow to a crawl,

but there is always ground to clear,

always fruit to pick.


In the low yellow haze of autumn,

all the dress seems tattered rage,

all voices muddled mutes.

In autumn, frost may chill our bones

and the days seem much too short,

but there is always wood to stack,

always memories to sort.


When winter comes around

around to soon again,

always bare to black bone,

always silent as white jays.

We forget where we were,

where we are,

and how to get where we are going.

© 2002 Gary Blankenship.  All rights reserved. 



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