The Seasons

Wind of creation and wind of the dawn, All thou caress is soon withered and gone. Born of the elements, battered and bare, All that is common, so briefly, made rare! Weaver of rhythms, sweet shimmering spring, Ruled by a beauty that flowers from weeds, Marked by the meadows that ripple and sing, Joy from its season, and strength from its seeds. Wind of fruition and wind of the noon, All that thou touch shall play softly in tune! Born of the rhythms, so sweetly they shine, Glowing with melody, vibrant as wine! Weaver of rhapsody, summer of gold, Ruled by a reason, reluctant to learn, Basking forever in glories that fold, Strength from its season, and wisdom, in turn. Wind of the harvest and wind of the eve, Rich-flavored fields where the warmth shall soon leave! Born of the rhapsody, worn with ill-use, Hopes poorly nurtured are ropes to a noose. Weaver of stories, the wisdom of fall, Ruled by the sorrow of days that grow gray, Knowing and loving, yet losing it all, Wisdom belated, then fated decay. Wind of perdition and wind of the night, Bringer of death and destroyer of light! Born of the stories ill-favored at end, All shall it sever, to sand shall it send! Weaver of chaos, the winter of waste, Ruled by the sword, as the ashes of Troy, All that was cherished, now charred and erased, Breaker to elements, molded by joy.