the quality of light seems
to be of great interest to me.
Within it I see change
of weather and season.
And February's only half-past,
but I see Spring
in the setting sun's rays.
Even if the days weren't getting longer
or the air didn't smell different,
the quality of light
would show the way.
Winter light is flat and pale,
thin as watered milk,
delicate as a spiderweb.
Summer light is full and bold,
brazen at the far end.
Autumn light is red and fading,
full of whispers of seasons past
and promises of what's to come.
But Spring is filled with new-wrought gold-
soft and pale on Winter's end,
built on the banked embers
of Autumn's red-gold fires,
and with Summer's unborn heat
to breathe life inside her,
Spring peeks shyly into the garden,
then boldly steps in with arms thrown wide.
2/18/07
I like how you examined the varying degrees, intensities of light revolving around the seasons and with your own reflection. It's a constant that's ever-changing. very hot. sjg
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Ah the seasons! What a magical existence. A beautiful write. Thanks.