Anya Bath-Samarakoon Poet Lyric

The wheel keeps turning

I walk out into the crisp, gold-lit air,
Where autumn leaves drift down from the trees,
Breathing in the chill on the October breeze.
The maples burn in copper and red,
A final bright dance before winter's sleep,
And I think of the quiet secrets fields keep.

The days grow shorter, the twilight comes fast,
Painting the windows in shades of pale blue,
As frost silvers grass, making old worlds new.
My father said the year has a heartbeat,
Slowing its rhythm as snowflakes draw near,
And I feel it inside me, turning the year.

Winter descends with a blanket of white,
The world wrapped in silence, cozy and deep,
While the garden outside is frozen asleep.
I listen to ice forming up on the pane,
Warming my hands on a mug of sweet tea,
Wondering what this year has made of me.

Yet winter yields, for the wheel must turn,
And soon a soft thaw runs down the hill,
Waking the soil up, quiet and still.
The first tiny crocus breaks through the mud,
A miracle happening right at my feet,
And hope starts to rise up in my blood.

Spring bursts in green with its blossoms and rain,
The orchards heavy with sweet-smelling white,
And I run through the meadows in morning light.
Birds build their nests in the high willow boughs,
Singing their stories of coming-of-age,
Like a reader who turns to a brand-new page.

Summer rolls in like a slow, golden wave,
With long lazy afternoons by the stream,
Caught in the heat of a midday dream.
We pick wild blackberries off of the vine,
With stained purple fingers and sun-warmed hair,
Wishing this moment forever were mine.

Four different chapters, all woven in one,
A circle that never quite comes to an end,
From chill of the frost to warmth of the sun.
I stand in the middle and watch them go by,
With a song in my heart and my face to the sky,
And the magic of time doing the healing.

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