The Seasons

This wooded path I found one day,
When the canopy above was tender green
With fragile, newborn leaves,
And the lustrous light a misty sheen
On the moist branches of the trees.
The rosy world each morn reborn
To the awakening miracle of spring,
With piping thrush and singing lark,
And hope reset in sweet refrain.
Along this wooded path I strolled one day,
When the canopy above was darkly green,
A luxuriant foliage spreading wide
With tight and glossy leaves,
And the filtered light gay dancing specks
On the branches of the trees.
The serene days of summertime:
Hot silence stung by honeyed bees,
And the cricket's chirp a trilling lullaby
In a world of iridescent sun.
To this wooded path I came one day,
When the canopy above was russet brown,
A fragrant, scented crown
Of warm leaves touched by rays
Of the harvest time splendour of autumn days:
An effulgence of grandeur
When flaming gold sweeps sunset skies
A clarity of light at eventide,
As the fullness of the moon
Mantles the darkness of the night.
This wooded path beckoned me once more,
When the canopy above was silver white,
A pure chaste arch of solid snow
And the branches of the trees below,
Wavering phantoms in the shadowy light;
An eerie world of silent sound,
Life suspended, crystallized
Into a still and timeless peace.
The seasons turn
And drift away,
Upon the tide
Of yesterdays;
Then each flows back
Within its stream
And so the cycle starts again.

by Connie Laurent

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