The Seasons move along so quiet in time,
an ever changing tapestry.
The Seasons know about love's riddles and rhymes,
that lay beneath and Autumn tree.

Where is the Springtime we use to bring,
a time we could call our own?
Where are the love songs we use to sing,
or did I sing them alone?

The Seasons give me time to wrestle my fears,
and show how good a change can be.
The Seasons always bring me beautiful years,
but never bring you back to me.

When in the Winter, does healing begin?
So cold, so lonely, so gray?
Making the flowers love once again,
blowing the leaves away.

The Seasons mend a broken heart with a breeze,
felt by a Summer windowsill.
The Seasons tend to come and go as they please,
and leave behind just what they will.