By Thomas Page
A new year is born in the dead of winter. The sun sets above the mountains.
I can feel the chilly air as it blows through barren trees above the mountains.
The spring comes like a mewling child, trembling from dying winter’s grasping fingers.
It shakes off the snow which melts into the living rivers above the mountains.
The summer devours the young spring with sweltering heat.
Eagles and sparrows dare to soar over the scorched terrain above the mountains.
Fall, like spring, quietly waltzes to relinquish Summer’s reigns over the sky
To set earlier each evening, the fading sun slowly descending above the mountains.
Winter, yet, is the origin of all things born in Spring
And the Page who tunes his lyre to sing the majesties above the mountains.

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