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
thunder’s 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.
