On Seasons

I. S. Levitz    islevitz.com

I. S. Levitz     islevitz.com

We are creatures of habit
conditioned by seasons of ritual
   the first bud burst on a plum limb
   the first fruit to set on the apple tree
   the first berry gone black on a vine
Spring goes summer in no time
a cup overflowing with grace

We are creatures of habit
conditioned by seasons of ritual
   the last leaves fall burnt amber
   the last rows of corn gone to silage
   the last acorn squirreled off oak
Fall flies to winter on the wind
a kiss that holds no mercy

“It was a year without seasons;
it was a year without punctuation.” ~ Donald Hall

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About Peter Notehelfer

I'm a retired people person who now finds the time to watch the little details of the world without worrying about being watched by anyone . . . I live on an Island north of Seattle with my wife named Ellen, a yellow dog named McGee, a yellow cat named Gatzby, and four fine chickens . . . I read fiction, bake bread, smoke salmon, and fish whenever the weather allows . . . Oh, and yes, I try to write a poem every day simply to avoid senility!
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3 Responses to On Seasons

  1. important milestones

    Like

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