The seasons

Which natural beauty best describes
my newest admiration?
What striking trait ‘bove all presides
and flouts my concentration?

I’ve slept in fields of roses red
and fallen to their thorns.
My wondering rose has long since fled
and troubles me no more.

I’ve slept upon the dreamy air
where angels dwell and roam.
But wingless men’ve no place up there,
my past has come to show.

So now awaits the metaphor
by which she shall be known.
A line I’ve never done before,
a feeling never shown…

she’s fair like gentle summer breeze
and colourful like spring.
She’s tender like the autumn leaves
and tempers winter’s wind.

So when I speak of nature,
of course I speak of her.
And her presiding nature
will season every word.


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