Seasons

I heard the early warning call.

The heralding before the fall.

I cupped my hands to catch it, but it took me with it, hands and all.

I tumbled into Autumn leaves,

Crashing through the yellow trees.

Rest is easy at the bottom, in a bed of fallen things.

I’m not sure when my legs could move.

But darkness is a funny hue.

And looking back at black, the lack; I started to miss the color blue.

Enter winter, I felt the rush.

On the vast and white, I lain my brush.

You may have thought me Midas; color ignited, where I placed my touch.

But blue skies often fade to gray.

And tides come in, like seasons change.

And as luck would have it, luck would have me, sitting outside in the rain.

Spring hops in, I fail to bloom.

Taken with my bud, in gloom.

Deaf to any heralding, to taunt to head impending doom.

All living things are born to die.

But it doesn’t mean that I won't try.

To carve myself in history, like crystalline, immortalized.

Summer begs my attention still.

But I, a lion, of iron will.

Stride into the infinite, endless possibilities and miracles.