Change O’ the Seasons


The change o’ the seasons brings with it
A crushing weight: as if the descent
Into darkness mirrors the soul’s aspect
And speaks to the shadows that linger
In the brighter days.

It is in these short eras of wracked sleep
That the mind considers the limits
Of the lurid, and wonders what worth
The summer sun even holds in truth;
Thank God it is gone.

What is temp’rance in these blackened months,
When the sun does not rise at all?—
The weakened spirit is justified
In rejecting night’s cold embrace
And morning’s delirium.

When all is wrapped in Stygian dusk
It reminds the crippled soul of life’s
Purest character: that of nature’s
Indifference to stuff’ring in its realm;
Its ambivalent shrug to the wan
Countenance of man.


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