through your seasons

fall is the start of the new cycle:

it is burning orange skies, it is a warm, vibrant palette,
it is chilling breezes, creeping timidly through woolen threads,
and it is the beginning of promises, the opportunity for something born anew—

and you will feel it: for fall is counting raindrops on your window,
it is a whisper, just near the shell of your ear: 
“we’ll see each other again; when we have time.”
you think of what could be and what might be.

fall is your hushed whispers and your quiet before a storm,
weary silence and peaceful radio static,
it is: “i’m ready for this, i guess.”
you guess, you guess, you wonder when you will stop to breathe.

winter is the thick of it all.

you lose yourself in the cold
for it is dull and muted, yet mockingly biting,
you wonder: what could have been different? why this doesn’t feel right? where did everyone go?

winter turns into a blur, and winter goes by too fast,
and winter is remembrance, mourning, pushing on.

yet spring comes like a breath of fresh air.

it’s soothing old pains and licking open wounds,
you begin drinking in the sun, tilting back your head,
for it is aftermath of a job well done and
it is bundles of sprung daffodils in your arms that you planted prior.

spring is rest, and spring is “see you later,” but you think they mean it this time.

summer is the end of a cycle.

it is wiping away the sweat from your forehead,
and it is hugging friends goodbye but also seeing them again tomorrow,
and you run, run to plant sweet kisses to the air, ignoring the fatigue in your legs,
and oh, child of the sun, look at you now. tear tracks were your roadmaps.

summer is loud, summer is easy, and summer is more than okay.