Seasons of Love

He did not come cloaked in fresh spring lover's lust

Nor in a summer sky-lit shower of lunar stardust.

And with autumn's pallet of bronze radiant rust,

He painted purity with a winter's wet, white brush.

I found kindness there beneath the rousing rush

Of seasons falling, pouring pure down upon us.

Oh, clean washed heart, how sweet the muse

That teases thoughts and love reproves.

You are all seasons, my reasoned rhyme,

Cherished with tenderness throughout our time.

And through each season of smitten shy smiles,

I pray one more day of my desperate denial.   

-P.S. Colley

 Dec. 2024