You must turn 16, soon. Before the year is over.
Your year of birth, your current age tell me.
Your birthday is yet to come.
You weren't born in Spring.
When leaves were springing green and wriggling their way out of the cold.
You weren't born in Summer, at least not yet.
But you could be,
the smell of crickets chirping through the air.
Or the sight of fresh flower smell.
Maybe fall, when
Campfires and trees all lean together against the wind
And the dark huddles close to keep warm.

Winter?
Are you days of weak and bleak, redeemed by
The penitence of snow?
Are you the sorrow of snowflakes
Or the loneliness of Christmas?
Do you know the sadness of winter, at fifteen?

You must turn 16, soon.
When you do, I hope the skies sing you a song.