So it is, this silent dance of seasons.
I seem to bud in morning dew of spring,
New and hopeful of what it might bring;
I dance among the fireflies in summer,
Drunk on promises none have even given.
Autumn comes calling as a hangover falls;
Fog sets in as the chill reaches my bones.
With winter I am numb to all I have known.
Cold and dead, full of nothing but stone.

So shall I grow you, my new little seed?
Will you sprout your roots into my skin;
Shimmy too and fro with summer’s song?
Will you wither as the weather bends,
And leave me bleeding by winter’s end?