Seasons of the Heart

Born of winter's womb, the quiet warmth of spring in bloom surrenders
all it's splendour, shaking off and making room, for summer's wind so
tender. I'll mend her, from her aching trials of labour I was once
inclined to savour. Now I'll save her, still flowing like she does
without a quiver of the danger, motioning to please me with her words
which I find stranger. I'll delve into her mind to find a way in which
to change her.

Born of summer's glare, the easy life of autumn
sun reveals the branches bare. Beyond the dawn the apple's spawn,
glowing in the grass so fair ensnares her. Intrepid thoughts, the depth
of which her mind knows not will tear her. I'll cradle both the remnants
of the ever lasting faith, a sign to which impaled her, and the
overbearing love with which her smile entrapped my heart before I failed
her.

Dying in the cold, I'll find a way to hold a thought of
ancient glory. Decades pass the tales of time which tell a different
story. And when the artful sin of death is painted dark across my
breath, I'll smile for loving hope in shades of heather. Slain I lay in
winter's tomb, though high I fly like clouds of plume, cast free from
birds of feather. Ceaselessly I roam the skies, care nor want but in my
eyes, as seasons wheel the weather.