Biting winter wind,

Rolling through the alleyway,

Making spring the fool,

Or so it would seem to me,

And my tissue paper coat.

It is near the end
And it always saddens me
Where does the time go?
Like The Seasons, poems are
An ephemeral language.

I am perplexed by
The season of this morning
Cloaked in Autumn’s robes
I am kissed by Summer’s crown
But encased by Winter’s howl.

Without my consent,
Tossed aside and into dirt,
I am forgotten.
For a seasons turn I sleep,
Before I blossom in red.

Cool summer morning
Remove your foggy blanket
Sing us good morning
With soil and a sunrise kiss
Orange poppies bid you welcome.