The earth is lopsided spinning on its axis and hurtles through space.
As the moon graces the night the seasons wax and wane.
Summer blazes in its conceit as the king of the seasons filling the sky with optimism and blue, the ground is febrile beneath our feet, the horizons shimmer like an hallucination, the nights are bright with stars and the dawn evokes time’s beginning as it rises early to ignite the day.
Fire lords the sky as jarrah and marri explode canopy to canopy, the earth is scarified then reborn after the holocaust.
Indian summers meld to Autumn, a graceful exit from the splendor of noon, and is subtle in its transition. Leaves take all different hues of yellow red and orange rusting like strangers to the brilliant green of their youth. They crumble brown and weave away as fragments in the fall swayed by the chill winds their executioner heralds.
Winter stalks the horizon with dark clouds as lightning rumbles sparking from the distance obscured by the grey tones of colour fading. The days are short as our lives and for those of good fortune the hearth burns with warmth, as logs shatter and dismember upon their impact with the stones that cradle them and smoke to their destiny. All the worshipers of fire are mesmerised as the dark embers sparkle, glow and fragment in their eyes.
Spring comes eternal as hope after the darkest hour, a rite of passage to a new beginning. The sun lengthens our days warming our spirits but the chill of winter still has some currency to spend. The patient gardener is rewarded as shoots sprout giving rise to every colour of the rainbow.
Spring is a beacon to man.
Flynnpoetry 