By Thomas Page

If I were to spin a season from silk,

Making human’d face out of spitting
Image, who would we behold right there?
Spring would probably be a young woman
With flowers and orchids blooming from her
Hair. She, like the softly-born breeze, would float ‘bove
The groves and glens hued with forest green
To guide a setting sun dusting valleys.
Summer would be a fiery-painted
Man whose days with blazing suns making the
World feel like hellish ovens matching his
Wrath. But there would be days when he would gen’ly
Light his land of pastors watching their sheep.
Autumn would be like the wheat gathered from
The chaff, flaxed in the truest yellow shade.
She would mix heat and cold to soothe valleys
Of their bounties harvested in dying Lights as the globe turns upward like her hand.
Winter would bear a white beard as full as the
Snowbanks up north juxtaposed with rosy
Cheeks bracing the chill of the air cutting
Lungs’ breath—acerbic and gentle, bitter
And sweet like sugared cranberries served hot.

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