The fickleness of spring gives way,
The temperature rises,
And with it comes the anticipation,
Hope for this year,
And the trees samba to a thankfully cool breeze,
As we rejoice around the barbeque,
Sunbathing and sunburns,
Beaches and azure waves,
Picnics and chilled beverages,
These temporary heavens,
I adore them all,
These hallmarks of a summer fulfilled.
Spring is come,
I see it in the daffodils legion beside the road,
I feel it on the warmer zephyr,
My ears heed the throng leaving hibernation,
The smell of fresh grass graces my nostrils,
I taste the cordial breeze upon my tongue,
My senses can perceive the shift,
The world comes to life again,
Shaking off the frosty mantle,
Bringing its head above the snow finally,
Taking a long-awaited breath,
Its veins bearing aqua unfrozen once more,
Like an archaic blade reforged,
The world exists anew.
The season of the harvest is here,
When the arbors perform strip shows for their friends,
And the land adopts an ochre blanket to hushnup its prudishness,
Pumpkins and Guy Fawkes prepare their pomp,
The air grows ever brisker,
In preparation for Jack Frost,
His winter games for us all to endure,
Over yonder I spy an idle spectator,
Held aloft and open in a field,
A wooden figure of a human,
An offputting caricature of straw and old fashion,
Though bodily impervious to the changing of elements,
He hates the chill and wind but can only scream in silence,
His mouth is sewn shut,
What crime justifies such a penance?
What devilry gave him this crucifixion?
An idol of the harvest,
To withstand storm and banish avian menace,
This farmyard mannequin restrained,
Was it against his will?
Or merely born of a desire to attend the seasons shift?
The times of cold approach,
And the dark with it,
Twin seasons of Fall and Jack Frost,
Times of boreal frost biting at your fingers,
Seasons of shivers,
Presents of pumpkins and bonfires,
But not before the autumnal death of the year,
Firstly come the hues of orange and brown,
Emeralds decaying from the boughs,
Laying a carpet of beguiling entropy,
A funeral for this turn of the sun,
With scents of ginger and freshness,
Then follows the true storm of cold,
Walls of snow from the sky,
Rain haunting the alleys like spectres,
Jack Frost cackles in blizzards,
Leaving little crystalline stars about as presents,
These times bring cold and discomfort,
It’s undeniably true,
But it also brings gatherings around fireplaces,
Blankets and cuddles and cinnamon,
Hope for a new year,
If the cold didn’t bear down,
We wouldn’t know the warm.
