-- My Favorite Season --

John Herlihy

I was once asked about my favorite season;

On this subject, I had to think long and hard.

Each season born to exemplify a specific reason;

Each one bears witness as if having been scarred.

Rustling sound of wind in newly-minted leaves,

Small wonder why I proclaim a love of spring.

Gurgling brooks and bush-blooming fruit trees,

Spring eager to thrill us with melodies that sing.

Spring overtures summer, fall winter’s prelude,

Winter mourns while summer’s freshness gloats.

Each season in this full orchestra plays its etude,

Issuing tasteful melodies with distinctive notes.

Spring a child, the young we always forgive,

Summer in full bloom, flowers fill the garden.

Autumn as if the world passing thru a sieve,

Winter kills the world, no excuse, no pardon.

The seasons and their ways, each a sharp knife,

We continue to heed their lessons, attentive.

They cut thru into our core as we love life,

Filling our hearts with emotion as incentive.

Autumn plays a single violin whose strings cry,

Sad melody beating to the heart of November.

Breathless and pale, as hearts languish and sigh,

Church bells toll, days gone by to remember.

Yet, for all of the sadness, autumn is lovely.

The breeze cool, the sky clear, the air crisp.

The crimson leaves falling in a manner comely,

Wondrous color to enliven chill, morning mist.

Stark winter drapes the earth under its shroud,

A blanket of white covers the ground, the air still.

Skeletal trees in silhouette stand in the light, proud,

Harsh season of the avenger, everything it must kill.

Yet winter brings along its own sense of beauty,

Long uninterrupted hours of cold, clear nights.

Snowflakes eerily descending in sheer intimacy,

Haloed moon, winking stars, crystal northern lights.

The harshness of winter’s chill I readily forgive,

Spring rains sing the sweetest sound ever heard.

Summer’s warmth always gives us the will to live,

Autumn’s melancholy mood captured in a word.

Each season on its own will set hearts aflutter,

Under white snowdrifts, the blossoms are sleeping.

Summer winds whisper, winter winds mutter,

Spring skies banish winter, in happiness weeping.

Could I have four favorites, could that be allowed?

Should one season win the contest, the others lose?

Each season its own thing to offer, justifiably proud,

Making it impossible for anyone to rightly choose.

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Copyright © John Herlihy

Saturday 31 January 2023