Song of the Hinge

John Herlihy

The seasons come to knock on my door,

Leaving me lying there upon the floor.

The door opens, I hear the hinges creek,

Cold breath of winter not a spirit I seek.

 Raw intensity accompanies the winter chill.

Its bone-crushing grip lives within me still.

Yet what beauty lies therein I try to savor,

Falling snowflakes, sparkling icicles, I favor.

Spring arrives belatedly on the other hand,

The refreshing rains feel like a reprimand.

Buds of the almond tree bear their promise,

To change into blooms offering their solace.

The hinges of summer’s season feels like silk,

Its breast heaving with Mother Earth's milk.

Budding, blooming flowers by day gleaming,

Stars in the night sky sweet mystery beaming.

Hinges on autumn's door sing a sad serenade,

Multi-colored leaves descend as if on parade.

Leaves from the trees break away, gently fall,

This prelude to winter the season of the fall.

Winter’s return now comes back full circle,

Seasons ever changing, each one a miracle.

Seasonal door hinges have their own soul,

Opening and closing on wonders they stole.

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Copyright © John Herlihy

Tuesday 25 March 2025