-- Arrival of the Seasons --

By John Herlihy

With the arrival of winter,

Impending feelings of dread.

With the arrival of falling snow,

Feelings of peacefulness instead.

A solo violin sounds as a dirge,

The chill wind sings requiems.

Death’s reality as solemn urge,

Skeletal trees extend bare limbs.

Winter the season of discontent,

Frozen tundra in hearts to endure.

Yet its stark beauty feels content,

As true to life as white snow pure.

With the arrival of spring,

Winter mourns heart-felt tears.

Falling as rain with drops that sing,

Season of birth thru passing years.

Notes of a piano rising in trill,

Raindrops on roofs as thunder.

Burnished grasses awaken in thrill,

Crocuses raise their head in wonder.

Worth the wait of a thousand years,

Patience in the beauty of knowing how.

To open as a flower and release all fears,

Resurrection/rebirth play a part somehow.

With the certain arrival of summer,

Spring has revived earth’s death slumber.

Grasses, flowers, trees express wonder,

Fruit trees ripe and ready for plunder.

Rhythms heard in the beatings of a drum,

Fireflies enchant children as lanterns of light.

Bees invade flower heats with wings that hum,

Stars roam the Milky Way across the dark night.

Season of summer, alas, must come to an end,

The long days shorten, time quickens the hour.

Indian summer now arriving, let’s not pretend,

Panther paws of autumn now marking the hour.

In the winds of autumn, the voice of the loon,

Beckoning crimson leaves, falling in a way lyrical.

Brushing the landscape with its seasonal broom,

Awaiting seasonal change as one awaits a miracle.

Seasonal notes now tempered by pianissimo,

All of nature transitioning into a colorful blaze.

Each sighing leaf in its turn as breath of a piano,

Dying in sweet remembrance of its glorious days.

A cornucopia of color awash in all its splendor,

This final statement in a world now ready to die.

With winter soon upon us, we do well to remember,

The seasons have their moment, we question not why.

So the seasons pass in the line of a perfect circle,

Each one has their moment, a stately interlude.

Touching the earth with the wand of its miracle,

Painting this lovely world in shades of beatitude.

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Copyright © John Herlihy

Saturday 12 August 2023