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Poem
I would speak to you of the seasons set upon this earth.
  Each would make its mark ingrained when it is birthed.
Surely there is but one place to start the heart to sing
 when greens come forth at the first show of Spring;
the tender shoots rise steady from the softened ground
 as the seed begins to grow straight, narrow and unbound.
A babe's life begins to form like sparrows in the thicket rose
 appearing like the parents, mother, father or another undisclosed
while still in its youth it continues to struggle and grow
 balking and resisting of the parental taboo of no.

Spring was just a moment, a brief second in time
 and quickly comes the summer of youthful prime,
slipping quickly through the lessons of young life
 each slide to educational and professional heights.
The warmth and light of maturation in the brilliant sun
 is a syncopated dance hardly begun;
when the years fade and disappear
 into visions and dreams less clear
and suddenly we are standing looking left and right
 wondering how we got to basking here in summer's delight.

Autumn falls and quickly meanders in, 
 just when we thought that life was ready to begin
and we find time has sped too quickly by
 with thirty, forty, fifty on the fly.
Where did it go, the years so looked forward to
 suddenly realized uncounted, now lay  behind you.
More than half of life is spent
 and marks were barely a dent.
Holding on tight to what is now
 dare we face winter's hours?

Winter lies close around the turn
 filled with fewer days to burn,
and looking back seems mere pondering
 cast with images still wondering,
if we have fulfilled our destinies
 played our games and planned well our seventies.
The sidelines remain open, cold and unframed
 conditioned only by our self set restraints
as we fight, resist, contemplate our age
 failing to chill and sleep away that last stage.
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