Lo it comes, soft and gentle as a dandelion seed on the wind,
Bringing with it promise,
Promise of things to come, things not yet seen,
The efflorescence premature, yet enticing,
As souls yearn for warmth, for comfort, for reprieve.
Time is awry; old father time has surely had a tipple,
How else can nature’s sundial be so askew,
The verdure maturing before its appointed hour,
As perennials raise their stately crowns.
Mankind is all asunder, pandemonium succeeding bewilderment,
Has mother earth misplaced her ephemeris?
Has the ground determined it is its own pedagogue?
Perchance a shift in space has wrought these harbingers of a new beginning.
Days pass into weeks and month end approaches,
Sweet joy prevails on sun-bathed cheeks,
And yet there lurks the unspoken fear,
The never-to-be said possibility that will be, will be.
Hence approaches the day of dread,
Can escape without foreboding be attained?
Or will history prove yet again that the seasons’ cycle is without decay?
What’s this? A tempest on the scope of our understanding,
Approaches nigh the truth to tell,
The grip of Jack returns to mock our premature blossoms,
To thwart the early hope that grows within us all,
Frosting lays like icing all around,
It’s claws digging deep to choke out any trace of germination,
Strangling the delicate stalks that have broken the fallow to dance the dance of life.
Who are we, as mere mortals, to consider that we can alter the seasons?
Our intellect falls sadly short, as we remain pawns in the chess game of nature,
Instead we resolve to endure, for brighter days lay ahead,
That much is sure, and surety is what we seek,
At least until the cosmos teaches us that we are slaves to its will yet again.