Winter wraps himself in fur coats and wool scarves

to shed him from the snowfall,

but even the warmest coat can't halt the chill

that permeates through the many

broken hearts of a post-Christmas December; 

through the loss, and grief, and mourning

of collective people all around the world.

He sends us rain to wash away

the tragedies befallen to us this year,

but we only see them clearer,

reflected in the puddles beneath our feet.

The time of year meant just for love

is paradoxically the loneliest.

But Spring comes 'round eventually

and replenishes the desolate earth with

life, through the growth of little seeds

that sprout as soon as the sun grazes the sky--

filled with hope and resilience.

If the daisies and the lilies can do it,

so can we, follow their lead:

turn our chapped lips, weary eyes, and white skin

toward the sun, soaking in the warmth

of being, blossoming with a radiant joy

of purple, yellow, pink, and green.

The time of year meant just for love

is filled with the utmost possibility.

As the days grow longer, and the sunlight too,

Summer slithers in suddenly.

Children's favorite time of year for fun and play...

but the heat can be dangerous

as it lingers until nightfall, returning

hotter than the days before it.

It seems that everyone is happier in

the months of May, June, and July--

but what difference besides season is there

between the middle and the end?

Is it the warmth of the sun that cures all wounds?

The time of year meant just for love

is celebrated with passionate affairs.

Finally, Autumn arrives and everything

falls into place. Change is welcomed

like a new guest, into every house and home,

with hope that it will overstay

its welcome. The external world will transform,

inspiring us within,

to shake away our dead and faded leaves of

brown, red, and orange. The wind will

come and sweep away our worries and our fears,

just in time to beat the coming

Winter--the frost, the snow, the brutal weather.

The time of year meant just for love

is greeted at the door, but soon forgotten.

What time of year is time for love, when seasons

come and go? I want our love to

last throughout the year--through rain, and sun, 

and snow. To know the moment is right

for me to be with you, would give me hope to

see it through the pain and plight of

Winter, the promise of Spring, the dreams that

Summer offers, the hope that Autumn brings.

Which season is the season of love, and how

will I ever truly know,

if it is destined that these seasons must always

come and go? Love's time of year

seems that it will never really be here.

Brinn W.

This poem was created and written by Brinn Wallin. Please do not steal or copy without permission. 

*All Rights Reserved*