Seasons of Change
By John Tuttle
QuailBellMagazine.com
QuailBellMagazine.com
That time of year has again arrived.
The skies of old are often grey.
Bees and wasps gather to the hive.
The farmers give the animals their hay.
Fading now are the verdant pastures.
The wind blows with a cold, sharp air.
The doctor sees more ills needing cures.
Outdoors many trees begin to go bare.
The burdened clouds gave a rain yesterday.
Leaves drop in scarlet, golden, purple, and many more a hue.
I can see that it's six months until May.
On the undersides of grounded leaves lay droplets of dew.
If the autumn is the great season of fall
Why is spring not a season to rise?
The leaves are blowing, one and all.
And at night hear the echoes of wind-cries.
Winter is now coming on quite fast.
Our bodies tend to become slow.
Yet we push onward until the last.
To cheer us, we make fires and cocoa.
But in the spring my world shall thaw.
A dying season will give birth to a new season.
Memory will retain what I felt and saw.
And as on every morning, I will see the rise of the sun.
The wind blows with a cold, sharp air.
The doctor sees more ills needing cures.
Outdoors many trees begin to go bare.
The burdened clouds gave a rain yesterday.
Leaves drop in scarlet, golden, purple, and many more a hue.
I can see that it's six months until May.
On the undersides of grounded leaves lay droplets of dew.
If the autumn is the great season of fall
Why is spring not a season to rise?
The leaves are blowing, one and all.
And at night hear the echoes of wind-cries.
Winter is now coming on quite fast.
Our bodies tend to become slow.
Yet we push onward until the last.
To cheer us, we make fires and cocoa.
But in the spring my world shall thaw.
A dying season will give birth to a new season.
Memory will retain what I felt and saw.
And as on every morning, I will see the rise of the sun.