Poetry Forum

This is not my first poem ever written, but it is one that I think has a lot of potential. I would like advice, criticisms and any help possible. This poem is titled "Seasons".





At First Dawn,
The curtains part.
The sun gently peaks over a distant horizon as its rays lightly stretch over the sky.
What was once the darkest blue speckled with small jewels is now an abstract mural of roses, daffodils, and tulips coalescing to create the stage for which the show will begin.
Graceful crystalline ballerinas descend from the woolen balcony.
They spin and whirl against the wind until they finally land on the soft glistening stage below.
As each of their feet reach their destination, they all join into euphoric harmony.
Though the landscape appears barren with few colors below.
The potential beneath is the greatest reward.
The curtains close.
Day begins.

Daytime has arrived.
There is a frame.
It is Golden, with intricate vines, elegantly dancing across the edges.
The backdrop is an awe inspiring cerulean with a welcoming sun in mid rise.
The snow has mostly melted away, baptising the world for its grand resurrection.
The trees have now begun to sprout into a jade, emerald hue.
Gentle buds, adorning a spectrum beyond belief, delicately take their place among the arbor bodies that line the back of the painting.
Small fauna are seen from the top of the canvas to its base.
Each one begins their hour discovering their own niches with calm yet unsure steps.
Their paws and feet are gently being caressed by tranquil chartreuse pastures.
Above, new chicks dance proudly in their airborne discovery.
A new world most wish to explore.
Large ashen clouds linger in the back, providing water for the renew domain.
The painting is complete.
The sun rises higher

The sun is in the center of the sky.
The cameras begin to to roll.
The director calls action and everyone begins to fall into place.
Well orchestrated waves crashes forcefully again the bright tan, bringing a little back with them every time.
Small hermits skip across the cool sand, scavenging for food with the little time they have between waves.
A young child screams in delight at seeing the animals prance around her.

The sun begins to set.
A book lies on an empty desk.
It's autumn auburn enters from the cover.
Young animals rest along the gently worn pages.
A bookmark notes the memories gained as each day marks a new age.
Mother nature's eyes tire as the sky transforms into the same peachy-rose hues as the trees that caress it.
They are the pens for which open and close the story.
The book shuts to a finality.
The sun has set.

The night has settled in.
The curtains have shut again.
And the seasons shall cycle for an eternity.