Vivaldi’s Four Seasons

As the wind flows from east to west,

forgotten maple leaves coat the beaten down soil.

Leaving a bronze trail that shimmers in the early morn.

The ashes of spring lay down with a whisper

as boots mount then from above.

Pressing death into the musty grave of earth where they belong.

No fear,

the forgotten will be remembered

as their sous crawl up the roots of the tall wooden beasts of spring.

Flourishing back into the young flora they once were.