spring and summer are seasons of doing
i plant and i plan the clean rows of my garden of my soul of my life i clean out old closets and sell moldy memories at the yard sale for twenty-five cents but as flowers grow weeds grow alongside spring and summer are bumblebee busy diligent ant busy fraught with dancing and doing full with the blooming and being fireflies, fireworks, fire pits all lights that inspire us to live in the moment autumn blows in and slows our pace chills our face dries up the garden until the very grandiose of my spirit falls petal by petal into the forgotten, unturned soil winter is a season of stillness i sit and i stir for things past for things future for all that heaven has placed in my hand and taken away i allow the silence to speak the chill becomes frigid and icy fingers push deeper into fleece lined pockets the eyes of the soul turn inward, burrow deeper taking comfort and warmth from the flickers of passion the embers of hope the kindling of belief i melt the disappointment and doubt, and let anger burn, dissipating into the gray skies along with the neighbors’ rubbish the flames of goodness light the dark and melt the hardness to ash dust in the winds of change the silence makes vows makes promises makes new dreams built with calloused hands calloused hopes in candlelit evenings soon enough the snow will melt and the sun will push away the gray and beneath the snow beneath the stillness life will have been reborn.
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about the writer.“Words are only postage stamps delivering the object for you to unwrap” (George Bernard Shaw) past tense.
January 2019
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