Seasons

To winter, I am cold and
unimportant; to summer,
I am the moon. To spring,
I wear my storm clouds like
hand-filled smears of war
paint; to autumn, I am tawny
street light cast over asphalt
pasted with leaves. But who
would I be then if not me? A
question with no definitive
answer? Perhaps an orb of
bright, raging infernos hurtling
through the void, with no
greater objective than to
light the way as others pass by in
their silver-lined rocket ships.
This new spirit is wise - cunning
beyond the years I've been aware;
the old is what remains when
you drain the bad out of the
seemingly surreal.

                    To winter, I am the fire.