September 8, 2001
The four seasons, through Firemoss' eyes.
I, who mark the passing of my time
(Though not by years nor dances as they say
For those can pass as easily as rhyme.)
For, as I see, there is another Way.
Not stars nor tracking of the day or Night;
But something else relying on the day:
The very plants dependent on the light
To grow, to thrive, as seasons full come past -
Each marks its simple time, to my delight.
And from them, I can tell a season's last
Or beginning (as in when the buds come green
When Winter's face removes his Chilly Cast).
And no such thing as lovely can be seen
As fields and trees bedecked in Flowers sweet;
Their colours bright, their subtle warmth serene
As cublings run about with naked feet
And young love blooms as breezes gently blow.
The budding plants with flowered faces greet
The light that shines upon them here below.
The winds shift south, the warmer days
Make us forget the times of cold and snow.
Then, with a subtle shift of sunlight's rays,
The blades of grass turn softly, lightly brown
Becoming food for animals that graze.
The plants I gather must be quick-cut down
Lest flowers shoot and herbal cures be lost.
Long gone's the Springtime fog's translucent gown
And Summer's deadly, stifling heat is tossed
Much like a too-thick blanket on the land.
An untrained eye might wonder at the cost
Of such a change. But in my well-trained hand
Rests nature's gift in shades of subtle gold.
And through the vales and fields new colour's spanned
In hues of white and lavender - though not as bold
As Nature's first spring offering -
It tells us there's reprieve from frost and cold.
The berries are now sweet and ripening
And more than one has hands and mouth dyed red
While daytime breeze is cooler, gently stirring -
Driving us from our warm and shaded bed
In which we took our rest of Summer's heat.
From apple trees and Fall's harvest we're fed.
Along with Autumn's bounty of fresh meat.
The trees become ablaze with their bright fire;
Light angles low and dappled sunflowers greet
The sunlight filtering softly through the briar.
And, once again, a soft and steady rain
Masks gibbous harvest moons ascending higher.
But, sadly, Wintertime must come again
As fire-bright leaves fall gently to the ground.
I all but feel the forest's sleepy pain
As Winter comes upon us - sans a sound
Of warning of its icy bite or bitter cold.
And in this silence, scarce a plant is found.
Nor ever does the good land look so old
Or lifeless as beneath that frozen rime.
No better way of Seasons can be told
By I, who mark the passing of my time.