What drive is there in me
that makes the future vision
shine above present pleasure?
Each season has its own beauties
its own perfections and still
I sing praises for the next.
Winter shines and prospers snow
gives us leave to huddle warm
old dogs at our side.
Yet in Winter I plant seeds
to push into Spring’s fresh birth
forgetting old ills in new growth.
Spring melts away the stiffness
as trees suggest red and frothy
infant leaves to the birds.
Yet in Spring I stretch out
into Summer’s hot sameness
as if breezes would always blow.
Summer celebrates herself
in red glistening of peppers
in life competing with itself.
But in Summer’s greenest growth
I hear Autumn’s far off rumbling
wish for leaf-fall for the compost.
Autumn bears the greatest beauty of all
her hair blazing, her breasts and belly full
against skies so blue they hurt the eye.
Still in Autumn I celebrate the frost
the creeping cold that will send
all life underground for safekeeping.
Eyes always to the turn of the wheel
Will I miss the soft footfall
of the mole sniffing past my doorstep?