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Come flower child,
Join the rest,
In the autumn fields abloom.

Come flower child,
Join the patch,
In the rolling hills of autumn.

Come flower child,
Lay to rest,
Just like all the others.
Who came to the autumn fields,
Lined with stones.
I'm working on my classical styles, trying to learn that depth they had.
Spring, a hesitant touch, like the first unfurling of a fern.  Sunlight, a pale gold wash over new green shoots, mirroring the shy blossoming of our affection.  Stolen glances, quick as the darting of hummingbirds, a shared laugh, light as the breeze whispering through willow branches.  The air thick with the promise of something more, a burgeoning warmth that melts the last frost of doubt.  We walk hand in hand, the earth beneath our feet soft and yielding, a reflection of our hearts opening to each other.  The scent of hyacinth and damp earth, a heady perfume that intoxicates the senses, a prelude to the vibrant summer to come.

Summer, a blaze of color, a riot of sensation.  Days long and languid, stretching out like sun-drenched meadows.  Our love, a sunflower turning its face to the light, bold and unapologetic.  Passionate embraces, as fierce as a summer storm, leaving us breathless and renewed.  We swim in lakes, cool and dark, our bodies slick with water, mirroring the depths of our feelings.  The taste of ripe berries, sweet and ****, lingers on our tongues, a reminder of the sweetness we’ve found in each other.  Fireflies ignite the twilight, tiny sparks of light mirroring the fire that burns between us.

Autumn, a tapestry of russet and gold, a time of mellow reflection.  Our love, a vintage wine, rich and complex, aged to perfection.  Long walks through forests ablaze with color, leaves crunching beneath our feet like whispered secrets.  We gather close, drawn together by the chill in the air, finding warmth in each other’s arms.  The scent of woodsmoke and cinnamon, a comforting aroma that fills our home, a sanctuary built for two.  Our conversations deepen, like the lengthening shadows of late afternoon, exploring the hidden corners of our souls.  We are grateful for the harvest of our love, the bounty of shared experiences.

Winter, a blanket of white, a time of quiet intimacy.  Our love, a flickering candle in a darkened room, a beacon of warmth and light.  Snow falls softly outside, muffling the world, creating a cocoon of peace around us.  We curl up by the fire, wrapped in blankets, sharing stories and dreams.  Hot chocolate, rich and creamy, warms our hands and our hearts.  The silence is filled with unspoken words, a language of love that transcends all others.  Our bond, like the evergreen trees, remains strong and steadfast, enduring the harshest of winters.

And as the seasons turn again, as spring’s first blush returns, I long to walk this path with you once more.  Each bud, each bloom, each ray of sunshine, each falling leaf, each snowflake, a reminder of the beauty we’ve created together.  I want to relive every moment, every touch, every word, every season of our love, again and again, forever.
From my lesson in Picadilly's Write the Poem
anna Feb 10
The transition from summer to autumn;
forgetting the dead
to pull leaves into mourning,
sweet residues.
Dead beneath the cold;
the proof of living.
Zack Feb 10
Once clean, white, and pure
Snow, shoveled into a heap.
Black, with the world's mud.
Nothing is pure forever.. even the most beautiful
Zack Feb 9
Winter in full fledge
The cats fur matted with snow
Even he seems cold
nicole Feb 6
1-15-25   3:06pm

january
the month where i start to mourn summer
and forget about the sound of the ocean

birds migrating south
darkness by 5pm
layers upon layers of clothing

but we read more books
and the neighborhood cat seeks solace in your home
snow graces the ground
a contrast between light and dark
life and dormancy

a moment to pause
to release and let go
love
shelter
the promise of spring

a slower life

I guess January isn't so bad after all
Winter sun
kissed by the breeze
shakes the limbs
of starveling trees
wakes the bones
of each bare bough
and tells the spring
it’s not long now
*Finnish for awaken
Winter's cotton collar is white
spring wears muslin sprigged in green
summer is floral poplin
and autumn cinnamon bombazine
neth jones Jan 29
arthritis tippled wooden relief    plugged in a bed of mud
the leaves that decay to its side                                   
                          comp­liment the carved ones that feather the face
but it is creaked   crevice and sinuous  
  a kind crumpled face  or maybe a stern  yet approving  parent mask
two seasons of weathering                                                    
  ­                            withered   saturated and withered again      
this self unearthing
worth moulded from
the decaying green man
reapplying  for a creative birth
for a visit  on the Autumn hearth
filling in its ****** details     with broken and discarded
school yard pencils   scudded over litter  and mud
soon to be worshiped again...
would settle for a respectful gift        from a child

for all his wonders in spring                                            
              ­                  he has envied the witness of harvest
but attention goes to other gods

he pouts  out of season     for no one here  greets him
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