Out of season

16 04 2012

While frantically trying, with little success, to de-clutter I came across a verse I wrote nearly twenty years ago. I had thought it lost, it had been a long time since I had seen it so I shall share it here before I misplace it again.

Spring and the first buds bloom                                                     
Like the tender flutter in a mothers womb.
They gently unfurl their fronds and buds,
As a new life forms from its parents love.
Boldly they burst out, vibrant, bright,
That perfect child like springs new light.

Then summertime, so strong so sweet,
This new life now must find its feet.
As nature displays her fruits with such pride,
She feels not the seed of doubt hidden there inside.
The summers sun so warm and healing,
Like a balm to the wounds of the ripe fruits leaving.

Mellow Autumn creeps slowly around,
While the debris of life’s labours are thrown to the ground.
Her naked arms, coldly hung by fog,
Where once she received such unquestioning love.
With blankets of dew and tears of rain,
How could such precious pleasure become such raw pain?

With quiet time for thought and rest,
Winters crisp season should be the best.
But frozen fingers of ice like jabbing needles,
Open the wound of hurt she feels.
Gently, a flutter, a tiny bird takes shelter in her barren boughs.
Winters glimmer of hope, a cry unheard,
Someone does still need her now.

Spring again, the grass will grow
Courting birds will sing, such thankful fellows.
The fruits of her fruit are born of her anew
Again life returns, once again the dew.
This timid sun warms away her doubt
That springs gentle pleasures will again be felt.

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