Seasons of Time

The frost is on the pumpkin. Brown is the vine. The axis tilts,

the flower wilts. We press to capture time. A time we thought so

far away. Closer as the sun begins to fade.

History borrows you and me. Like winter lends us spring. And autumn-like begins

our flight. Returns the fallen leaves. To where the journey all began.

The tree grows tall, the boy becomes a man. We think

we understand. Winter chills the tears we've spilled and

turns them white as snow. The child cries to go outside, so mother