None can compare.
To the nude silver branches and barren expanses,
That the cool of winter doth bring.
Unless you equate the way the birds sing,
In the start of the fresh, blooming spring.
Or perhaps the warm air,
Filled with crickets’ prayer,
That’s found only in the summer’s afternoon glare.
But then there is the time of the harvest,
With leaves like the paint on the palette of an artist.
Such tender, splendor indeed, in each season is found,
For in Nature, beauty truly doth rise and abound.
Shawnee Doling-Tye 10/6/13