FRIDAY: The Seasons

BY IRENA PASVINTER

Copyright is held by the author.

The summer comes and melts my hair to gold
And plays with wrinkles on my freckled face
Till winter conjures up its spell of cold.

Then hordes of snowflakes land on stiffened world
And thread white yarn through frozen golden lace
Till summer comes and melts my hair to gold.

Amidst the light and warmth my heart gets bold
Pursuing dreams and ghosts in wild race
Till winter conjures up its spell of cold.

In icy shackles my breathless soul feels old
And grey, like mane above my pallid face —
Till summer comes and sparkles my hair with gold.

My dreams return and for a while they hold
Against the flood of years with reckless grace
Till winter conjures up its spell of cold.

It  cannot last forever, truth be told,
But while it lasts, I shall enjoy this chase:
The summer melts my dreams to pure gold
Till winter conjures up its spell of cold.

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