#changingseasons - Hello Poetry

No longer "tired" New buds smile and say hello Can I spring forward?

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Apr 2

Apr 2, 2026 at 4:07 PM UTC

kanga

April Second, Twenty Twenty Six

No longer "tired" New buds smile and say hello Can I spring forward?

3

Winter lingers across the open land, scattering bright flashes that pretend to be beginnings storms dressed as invitations, ice disguised as urgency. Not every spark is sunrise. Not every sudden wind is a path. Some novelties belong to cold weather swift, consuming, gone before the breath returns. But the earth studies even its harshest seasons. And beneath the deepest frost, a steadier knowledge gathers the kind that moves without rushing, changes without shattering, remembers without burning. Then comes the shift: the slow pulse of thaw, the soft insistence of longer light, the quiet newness that doesn’t arrive with fanfare but with rhythm. This newness doesn’t demand speed. It collects warmth. It gathers small energies the way rivers gather meltwater steady, patient, following the shape of the land instead of fighting it. And in that rhythm a lesson forms: that not all beginnings must blaze, that discovery can move at the pace of unfolding, that momentum grows truest when it flows instead of erupts. Some newness erupts like lightning short, bright, empty. But the lasting kind moves like spring: quiet steps of light, steady breath of color, carrying forward what it touches without consuming anything in its path. And that rhythm, soft as returning soil, is enough.

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Nov 19, 2025

Nov 19, 2025 at 4:25 PM UTC

lackeyk10

The New That Grows

Winter lingers across the open land, scattering bright flashes that pretend to be beginnings storms dressed as invitations, ice disguised as urgency. Not every spark is sunrise. Not every sudden wind is a path. Some novelties belong to cold weather swift, consuming, gone before the breath returns. But the earth studies even its harshest seasons. And beneath the deepest frost, a steadier knowledge gathers the kind that moves without rushing, changes without shattering, remembers without burning. Then comes the shift: the slow pulse of thaw, the soft insistence of longer light, the quiet newness that doesn’t arrive with fanfare but with rhythm. This newness doesn’t demand speed. It collects warmth. It gathers small energies the way rivers gather meltwater steady, patient, following the shape of the land instead of fighting it. And in that rhythm a lesson forms: that not all beginnings must blaze, that discovery can move at the pace of unfolding, that momentum grows truest when it flows instead of erupts. Some newness erupts like lightning short, bright, empty. But the lasting kind moves like spring: quiet steps of light, steady breath of color, carrying forward what it touches without consuming anything in its path. And that rhythm, soft as returning soil, is enough.

56

Beauty is a lot of things. It’s in a lover’s smile, the glint of happiness in their eyes. It’s in a baby’s laugh — the innocence of being amused by something we see as mundane. It’s the fragile whisper of a person’s last breath, a final sigh, a lifetime gone in a moment. It’s an animal curled against you, trusting you enough to sleep — to dream — because it knows you’ll keep it safe. It’s the first hello and the last goodbye, the way the sun rises over the world, and sets beneath it again. It’s in the stars, glistening in defiance, never asking how long they’ll burn — just burning bright all the same. Beauty is the moon in all her majesty, the gentle and wild turning of the seasons, and the quiet ache that lives between them. It’s a child drifting to sleep, still waiting for Santa, still filled with hope and belief, not yet tainted by the cruelty of this world. It’s a soft “I love you” for no reason, a hand reaching for another just because it wants to be close. It’s in the quiet snores — or the loud ones — of the warm body beside you. It’s the sound of rain against the window, a warm breeze on a summer day. It’s the kind of peace that doesn’t ask to stay, but lingers gladly anyway. Beauty lies in so much — in the fragile, the fleeting, the perfectly ordinary things that make us remember what it means to be alive.

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Oct 29, 2025

Oct 29, 2025 at 11:54 PM UTC

SunflowerCreek

Beauty is

Beauty is a lot of things. It’s in a lover’s smile, the glint of happiness in their eyes. It’s in a baby’s laugh — the innocence of being amused by something we see as mundane. It’s the fragile whisper of a person’s last breath, a final sigh, a lifetime gone in a moment. It’s an animal curled against you, trusting you enough to sleep — to dream — because it knows you’ll keep it safe. It’s the first hello and the last goodbye, the way the sun rises over the world, and sets beneath it again. It’s in the stars, glistening in defiance, never asking how long they’ll burn — just burning bright all the same. Beauty is the moon in all her majesty, the gentle and wild turning of the seasons, and the quiet ache that lives between them. It’s a child drifting to sleep, still waiting for Santa, still filled with hope and belief, not yet tainted by the cruelty of this world. It’s a soft “I love you” for no reason, a hand reaching for another just because it wants to be close. It’s in the quiet snores — or the loud ones — of the warm body beside you. It’s the sound of rain against the window, a warm breeze on a summer day. It’s the kind of peace that doesn’t ask to stay, but lingers gladly anyway. Beauty lies in so much — in the fragile, the fleeting, the perfectly ordinary things that make us remember what it means to be alive.

48

The month of May — oh, may I say — Holds an ambiguous kind of sway. The summer sun can sometimes stay, Or rain may fall and never stray. It sounds like fun to bathe in light, But when the splash hits, takes its flight, It shifts the mood, no end in sight, Yet still, we chase the warm delight. It may be all safe and sound, But may not always stick around. You can’t deny the changing tune, For weather shifts from sun to moon. So swallow hard and step outside, Prepare to face the crying sky. Yet when the rain falls down to play, Its scent can take you far away. The feel of drops upon the skin, To cleanse the sorrow buried within. The joy of flowers in the showers, Though May’s soft grace may not be ours.

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Aug 17, 2025

Aug 17, 2025 at 3:31 AM UTC

KK030

When may speaks

The month of May — oh, may I say — Holds an ambiguous kind of sway. The summer sun can sometimes stay, Or rain may fall and never stray. It sounds like fun to bathe in light, But when the splash hits, takes its flight, It shifts the mood, no end in sight, Yet still, we chase the warm delight. It may be all safe and sound, But may not always stick around. You can’t deny the changing tune, For weather shifts from sun to moon. So swallow hard and step outside, Prepare to face the crying sky. Yet when the rain falls down to play, Its scent can take you far away. The feel of drops upon the skin, To cleanse the sorrow buried within. The joy of flowers in the showers, Though May’s soft grace may not be ours.

20

A Dream of Summer From my retreat, I doze watching white swirls dance past my windowsill And counting the growing collection of Glaciers under my roof While wrapped in a warm blanket, ignoring the Bite of chill that clings to my toes, while Seated in a chair, in front of the window Yet leagues away from a tree - an oak dead asleep with the onset of winter, set to wake at the sight of spring. Quiet, calm and covered in frost it waits And dreams of an August breeze and the golden suns of June, showers of April, and flowers of May mayhap, I am the same and as I close my eyes I dream of summer.

0

Feb 16, 2017

Feb 16, 2017 at 12:52 AM UTC

brittany-downer

Summer Dream

A Dream of Summer From my retreat, I doze watching white swirls dance past my windowsill And counting the growing collection of Glaciers under my roof While wrapped in a warm blanket, ignoring the Bite of chill that clings to my toes, while Seated in a chair, in front of the window Yet leagues away from a tree - an oak dead asleep with the onset of winter, set to wake at the sight of spring. Quiet, calm and covered in frost it waits And dreams of an August breeze and the golden suns of June, showers of April, and flowers of May mayhap, I am the same and as I close my eyes I dream of summer.

18