Occasionally notably one may travel and find,
Gawking carelessly on a barn in their midst,  
With fruits and grain scattered throughout,
Suffused with the sweet scent of the wheat,

With caulked vapors floret above at days end,  
The sundown spreads its beauty upon the lands,
And the obstinate blackbirds singing above
Among the glistening river the burbots jump,

One could never forget the daffodils cordage,
The scent of tilled lands afore one in ones travels,
And consistence a rancher with furlongs of cattle,
Or that old apple cider press in the old southern towns,

But where is the canticle of spring to come around,
Hours pass into days and the days into months,
Where are they when will this wonderful season come,  
As the sun percolates warmth upon the flowers to grow,

Carved work by hand of famed craftsman farm gates,  
The gates cast round fettered before my eyes,
A prognoses is all too clear of what lays afore me,
Winter will follow the fall as it always will do,

Spring summer and fall will again be part of the past,
As morning comes from eve amass the rooster’s crow,
I guess one can be compared to seasons born and bloom,
It is then we have experienced the seasons at their optimum,
   As the canticle of seasons have been attained”
                 By A. Guzaldo 07/06/2018 ©