Seasons

Seasons prose poem

Photo by *~Dawn~*


When winter comes and skeletons of trees
stand starkly upon the snow,
I will think of you
and your head on my lap before the fireplace . . .
skating on the gaunt, deep pond
where we made love on brighter days . . .
hot chocolate and fired brandies
and standing at windows while flurries fell.

When it is spring again and trees bear promises
as islands of snow die slowly in their shadows
I will think of you . . .
when all was alive again and you believed in us
within the world of nest-making and streams going home . . .
making bouquets of foothill flowers . . .
constantly profaning the word “forever”
and imagining that winter was forever gone.

When summer is upon me with sweltering wrath
I will come to the forest where we walked and
I will think of you . . .
where we were prone beneath the well-dressed limbs
in a canopy above us, fitted into one another like lovers . . .
by the quarry lake where you were covered in beads of water
and the sun loved you and glistened upon your body
where I looked at you as one would view sunsets or miracles.

Autumn will come with all its dark omens and I will walk
upon the crisp leaves made spectacular by death
and I will think of you . . .
where the earth wore its gaudy colors while ours had faded
into the murky hues of uneasiness and fear . . .
and soon the trees will awaken alone and naked to the world
and I will understand their plight in a simple box called home . . .
where once laughter lived and life was wonderful.

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