Where Do the Seasons Hide
by John Herlihy
Where oh where do the seasons hide,
When their cornucopia of blessings lie hidden?
In silence, when they no longer abide;
Gone with the wind, they are no longer bidden.
Spring showers but desert dust,
The rich lushness of the rains arrive no longer.
Summer’s heat feels as lust,
When spring’s mild dampness not there to ponder.
Summer warmth a friendship gone,
All the garden buds and blooms returned to ground.
Vanished as if they don’t belong,
Left behind, the voice of silence as the only sound.
The conflagration of autumn’s blaze,
The slow-descending leaves free-falling as dying birds.
Chill arrives with dawn’s haze,
Indian summer now speechless, without the gift of words.
Winter as stranger to contend,
The bitter cold, the frosty breath, the expanse of snow.
Burdened with ice, tree branches bend,
Colder than cold as north winds relentlessly blow.
Silently left in their hibernation,
The various seasons patiently await their turn.
Each one a rare blessing of creation,
Ready to smile, to frown, to mourn, to yearn.
After seemingly a long absence,
Each of the seasons happily return with their promise.
Ready seemingly for their short presence,
Spring rains, summer flowers, autumn leaves, winter snow as solace.
If the seasons never took leave,
Then the people of the world would have nothing to remember.
Nothing to smile about, nothing to grieve,
A sameness to forever prevail from January to December.
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Copyright © John Herlihy
Sunday 15 February 2026
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