There is a delicate innocence
in a young season.
One where they are just beginning
untainted by the coming days and the rush
of all the things that must change.
Unburdened by the falling leaves, or the growth of flowers
or the fall of snow on a winter evening.
But as the seasons age, they lose that innocence.
Leaves no longer bear the vibrant colors of Autumn.
Spring no longer grows such beautiful flowers,
whose petals are so soft
like silk, or a lover's touch.
Winter brings forth harsh blizzards and ice that forces
everyone into hiding
as they wait out just one of many winter storms.
Summer brings forth days too hot to do anything,
drought and sunburn, heatstroke and general uncomfortableness.
As the seasons die, they give birth to the next season,
innocence born anew in a never-ending cycle
of naivety, then suffering, then the long waited for relief.
A season never stays, and you cannot follow it.
But at the same time, you know
that it will always come back to you in the end.
Seasons are much like humans, no?
We are born so delicate, full of an untainted fragility
that people swoon over
wanting for that innocence to never fade.
But as we grow, that innocence turns to
bitterness, greed, anxiety, and the wish
for the next season to come along and save them from this
the boring, monotonous day that never ends.
And as we grow even older, acceptance rolls around
and we begin to regret the things we never did in life.
But for some of us, the season ends far too soon.
and unlike the seasons, we can never come back.
