Seasons

Seasons



The first day of his smile

Banishing the chill of a late frost

Thus my love comes


On the dawn of the first day

of the first spring

To tend my garden, till the sacred soil

Where the silky folds of my flower blossoms

Gently, widely


As my summer sun also rises

When he gazes past the twin hills

To the valley beyond

Offering the sweetest of nectars

Thus my love comes


To reap that which was so deeply sown

On a harvest moon divine

The fruit of his labor stretched out

Across a starlit ravine

Call him yet home again

Thus my love comes


On the last sunset of the last day

of the last fall


Stoking the hearth warmth

And we rest

The seventh day of my smile

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Poetry Picnic Week 37: Peace…