The Passing of the Seasons

There is curious magic in a springtime day

When the dawn over mountains paints all with pastel.

And dreams are new, and mornings fresh.

And all awakens then, and plays

In games, at summertime to tell.

And a songbird sings softly on the springtime wind

Of sweet days to follow old cold of long ago.

And though the years may intermesh,

An air of newness that blows in

Each spring allows my heart to tell

The passing of the seasons.

c. Spring 1994