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Cycle of Seasons

What matters is the transition of entwined organic time.

The transition between winter and spring,

leaving the taste of communicable warmth,

enriching, satisfying, the need for nature’s natural growth,

with the awaking roots of daffodils-transforming the dormant earth.

Buttercups, and apple blossoms, and pansies,  and heather,  and purple crocuses,

and the seasonal phenological-creep of spring,

the new growth-springing forth life-ancient sowing.

And the first awaking of the yarning dew,

from somewhere returning-unabridged.

And the new air on a returning breeze-bathing the earth with renewal,

feeling the joy of cherry pink buds,

reflecting the pleasure of what they are.

And the folding of tulips into themselves,

when the remnants of coldness,

becomes an end in its coolness.

And the fragrance of language,

in the complexity vessel of smell.

And the redressing of barren limbs,

into the great tracks of greenery.

And the cooing of a morning dove,

from an Apostolic Sanctuary.

And the marshes alive-with things humans never see,

migrants as ancient as life.

And the reproduction of births,

older then the migrants.

And of all the creatures aware its their time,

moving, rushing, enjoying an unblemished freedom.

And the infinity of clouds, disappearing into the sun,

transforming themselves into the  lushness of lactation,

feeding life with its seasonal change.

 

The summer solstice,  where twitting songbirds welcome their dawn.

And the aroma of a honey suckle bush filling the night with youthful dreams.

And the easy flight of a butterfly,

fluttering in an afternoon breeze.

And the sound of a bumblebee,

on a dahlia flower.

And a melodious  nightingale,

lullabying the night with its soothing song.

And a humming bird among a Sun Parasol.

And the rustling of creatures,

in their nocturnal voices.

And the afternoon of a summer rain,

expanding the spectrum of color.

And the intense violence of heat and cold,

clashing on a line of destruction.

And the splendor brightness of solitude,

knowing the inscription of all eyes.

And the images of the growing young,

rushing towards the utterance of independence .

And the flowing of waters,

still bearing all creation.

And a mosquito wading through its watery dream.

And a meadow where the spiritual lie with their own soul.

And seductive nymphs seduced by an ambrosial summer.

And the lush shades of forest and fields,

bath in the bliss of aliveness .

And the kindness of weather,

folded into the memories for tomorrow.

And the secret of sparrow to sparrow, leaf to leaf,

when the breath of each become as one.

And the silent hours of pleasure,

enjoying to all their months of contentment.

And the easy way of a summer twilight,

easing its way into a darkness,

with the pouring of illumination through its whispers,

that shingles the hills into a romantic flair,

listening to the coolness from an autumn equinox.

 

Changing the landscape of color,

with the seasonal wind.

Scattering the waning promise from the season before,

remembering a date in late September,

when the hours were blissful with its airy  warmth.

And the feeding from the harvest-fruit of plenty,

while a child’s hunger feeds a mother’s heartache.

And the taking of greens,

by the yellow and reds.

And the taking of the yellow and reds,

by the decaying browns.

And the desolation of the barren limbs,

weeping their marrow in secret.

And the struggling hours,

misting the land with its October dialogue.

And the coolness of the night,

kissing the mums with a shallow breath.

And the vestige of a dragonfly ,

somewhere dying without illusions.

And the leaving of a late robin,

answering its ancient call.

And a lingering wildflower ,

colored in an autumn sorrow.

And the wholeness of spirituality ,

speaking through the resting trinity.

And the coming of the dormant earth,

sheltering the land in a resting dusk.

And the animals of hibernation ,

returning to their slowing metabolism.

And the murmur of a leaving in a November Indian Summer.

 

With the call of the winter solstice.

Muffling the land in quiet,

as only the terracotta earth is heard.

And the shallow sun,

colored into a hazy sky day after day.

And the snow covered pines,

silently alone.

And a child’s footprints,

alive with a wonderment of one’s first snow,

with its joy springing from the milk of nature.

And an iris ,

snuggled in its vernalization.

And walking through a frozen field,

a barren language unto itself.

And a sheltering of salvation,

seen within an icicle.

And the abduction of Persephone,

the Dark  Mother of grief.

And the melancholy of creation,

in the lifeless snow  of loneliness.

And the early lost light,

submerged in the tilting axis.

And a blue  jay pecking away at the berries.,

waiting for the thawing stillness.

And the destruction of evergreens ,

for the celebration of a son’s birth.

And the purification of the old life,

with a New Year resolution.

And the flight of geese across the iced waters,

abandoned to the foundation of survival.

And the crusted waters,

evicting the tenant swans.

And the boisterous north winds,

disseminating the whistle of Boreas-tormenting.

And the deepness of a blue sky,

remembering the southwest wind of Notus.

And the gloom,

gorging itself on a silhouette of grayness.

And the black shadow from a moonlight,

settling on an abstract beauty.

And the frost,

calling to an unsettled sleep.

And the withered softness,

forced into the northern soil.

And the past kindness of  seasonal temperance,

descending into a monotone of each others echoes.

And the shadow of snow,

dancing like children –

still innocent with joy.

And the slower beating of life,

retreating into the survival of incubation.

And  the waiting of spring roots,

arrested by the prison of time.

And the harmonic understanding that what is,

will pass into a new journey.

 

The cyclic passing from season to season,

with the passage of the sun across the celestial equator,

an immaculate foundation of cold and warmth-the returning equinox of spring.

Speaking of the metaphysical in the immortal cycle of hope,

existing in the domain of humanity,

where the seasonal spirit marries man,

into the interfaith of matters.

Such as the enjoyment of lives gentle things:

such as the grace of a horizon into its creation,

and the beauty of touch by a leaving dusk,

and the morning singing its song of light,

and the innocence of life uttering its call,

and the splendor of a whisper into its dream,

and the softness of an echo recalling youth’s verse,

and the infancy of poetry in a child’s play,

and of the many other things  discoursed in shadows

leaving a sadness in a far away tear.

That bridges the seasons with the seasons of man:

like our knowing of matters in the Milky Way.

An infinitesimal  blue dot in the vastness of space,

a measure of luck-man mistakes for-foreverness.

 

Thus what matters is the intercourse of peace,

where life is tended by tenderness.

And what matters is kindness,

the nobler verse of existence.

and what  matters is the sublime generosity of nature,

a paradise of life clouded in extinction, and brutality.

And what matters is knowing of love in the embrace of a mist,

feeding the verse of refugee.

And what matters is the composition of the past,

a harmony of murmurs speaking in the famine of the future.

And what matters is the knowing of,

the spirit of all light comes from within ourselves.

And what matters is the invitation  of fingers,

by man’s first journey- accepted.

And what matters is the fulfillment of man,

still an echo from the marrow of God.

And what matters is your enduring growth,

from your first cry, to now, your directive life.

Fighting for the last of their kind,

in a disappearing dell.

And you,

teaching  the respect for all things,

the air, the water, the lands,

striving to thrive deceased by man’s uncaring spread.

And you,

so beautiful and alive,

knowing the feeling of eternity,

while running towards  the coming of discovery.

And you,

a light of life within the darkness of man.

And you,

coming into the strength of loving,

simply with the healing whisper of understanding.

And you,

learning from the hurt in the hands of the journey:

that without the companionship of love,

no meaning there is in the question of why.

And you, now,

with me, as I become a light from my shadow,

living.

Coming into our season of love.

 

 

Where the eyes of tomorrow

settled into our peace of time

that intercourse with yesterdays

enhancing the growth of a changing sky

into a horizon that births life’s way

banning the burden of the Puritan’s scowl

still living in the living dead.

 

And now we,

becoming the sweet breath of redemption

filling the voice of discern with the safety of knowing:

no matter the roads always our love will fill the void

a remembrance from  our parent’s love

and from that breast of love we were born to seedling

traveling its planting through every becoming season.

 

Leading too-this our time .

A season of our love,

dancing on the soft glow of a “Blue Ghost,”

And the telling of secrets from one sharing breath,

into its elegant passing into the human heart.

And our silent listening into a diffusion of each other,

waking to our infancy of a bonding yet complete.

And our happiness of inclusion into an unveiled vision of keep,

where the realm of its truth becomes a reality of us.

And   the pregnancy of tomorrows serene in their moments,

tracing their time from a waiting to enter.

And the opiate of belonging into the arms of comfort,

stilling the dream into the purity of being.

Leaving the divinity of an infinity speaking throughout.

Mating the seasons from the first of time.

Mating seasons of you, of me, of love.

Our love,  our hearts, our souls our flesh.

Her blood from our blood,

growing,  maturing, changing, with the living earth,

through the cycle of seasons.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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