In Spring, I taste apple blossoms in the air.
Foul weather fights with fair
Wrestling down the day’s hours,
Spilling wind and flowers.
I dig my hands into fertile earth,
push seeds and seedlings in.
Bands of color emerge behind me.
 
In Summer, I run free;
I roll on red carpets of clover,
Over and over. The heat grows,
Until time melts like taffy.
It sags in indolent tendrils, clings in a sheet,
Snaps back on itself at twilight
When the cicada sings me to sleep.
 
In Autumn, I smell woodsmoke creep near,
Dance with falling leaves,
And tell stories to the turning trees.
The insect orchestras bow out their glories.
Each field spins straw Into gold.
Some days, a raw wind brings shawls of rain.
 
In Winter, I look up through a haze of cloud
And see the sun burst out
To blazon the ice in skeins of blue and silver.
I curl my toes inside toasty socks
And shout in the blizzard’s face.
Outside, I make more snowballs than I need.
 
How can I explain I know each day by name?
Four seasons shape this place, each in its own way.
How can I tell you that time has a plan?
Autumn cuts what Spring spins;
Winter’s knife carves Summer’s wood.
No buts. And no waste. ❖