The Seasons with You
by Wilda Morris

There's a river by the edge of town.
At least, there was a river…
Sometimes when it's spring
flamingos or herons still come
looking for water, or crows and doves
show up. They only slake their thirst
when a spring snow is melting.
We lament the loss—
the riverbed turned to dust.

If I am summer, as you say I am,
or rather, when it’s June or July here,
we welcome a sudden mountain storm
like the one our first summer here
on Green Mountain. It was a blessing,
feeding our desire.

Summer's gone now.
Sunflowers which filled empty spaces
along the picket fence
still stretch blossoms toward the sun
but Lady Autumn is sweeping through October.
In the wild woods we walk
on fallen colors, red, orange, brown,
yellow, and hear the winds of love.

Now it’s November. We smile
through the heavy gray, still happy,
for we have learned to enjoy
moonlight in winter
and circles of light from Venus,
Mercury, and Mars.
During this untethered interlude
when nights seem endless
we pray and hold on
as we dream of spring’s emergence.



 

Return to: