The first weeks were a warm breeze,
caressing smooth silk skin at dawn
with laughter like bell chimes echoing through the air
as we rolled along in the green grass
in an endless expanse of flower-filled fields.
And they were golden,
as pure and bright as the rising sun.
With autumn came the reds and the oranges
and the gradually browning leaves that we never really noticed;
day by day, the air crispened and cooled;
we jumped into the piles of leaves, threw our heads back
into the colors and watched the wind carry our laughter.
Then the ground beneath us froze,
the vibrant colors giving way to dull brown.
Winter was that bitter cold
that climbed up through fingers and toes
and headed straight for the heart, setting in within minutes;
a sudden, chilly whisper that burned away all thought
and left in its place only numbness.
I took in that one, biting breath;
inhaled the cold, and exhaled regret.
Spring came like a breathe of fresh air, a gentle breeze
that washed away a deep-seated melancholy,
the ever-greening grasses and trees banishing loneliness;
and the ground suddenly seemed that much more solid,
the whole world brimming with life.
Flowers wilt only to bloom;
when out goes the old, in comes the new.
