Elegy for Easy Seasons (or, Internal Seasons in Disarray)

After Alphonse Mucha’s Four Seasons: Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter (c. 1896)

Spring when knowledge felt like teenage love: blush, some words—

branching out, tasting, opening, until the last hour of Summer light—

deepening colors, roots, Autumn chill held back enough for sweeter fruit;

and fireplace warmed the inside, while Winter made its wind-knit drifts:

They came and went, each admired the other.

Filigree months temperately limned the next.

Easy interlace of anticipated days returnings.

One season’s page turned simply to the next.

—then never simply

one day, a child’s life lost

the pages lock into days months years from now

do they open? do they turn?

the seasons lose their posture their gowns

they wear rags with as much dignity as they can

they lose touch with each other

they come in and out aimlessly

forget manners and settings and what they are there for

autumn forgets everything but decaying

freeze tries too hard, has the sod early and deep—

thaw emerges from some hovel with graying hair

spits on the ground in front of her sister

Summer braces herself, tries posture again.

I sit outside in full sun

wrapped in blankets

covered in icicles and dew.  

shortlink: dogb.us/elegy



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