Reflections & Memories Associated With the Indecisiveness of Weather We Know As “Seasons” (An Opinion Article, NOT a Poem)

As an amateur photographer and as a human being, I have a real appreciation for the seasons. I have no favorite season, unless you can count the transition time from one season to the next when you notice the subtle changes. There is also a second reason why I appreciate seasons. It’s this: I hate routine. I NEED to see a change in scenery from time to time. Thanks, God for making that!

I don’t like sharing poetry with people usually. I don’t really even like using the word “poetry” unless its in reference to Robert Frost or Edgar Allan Poe. The reason being is that I believe that the literature genre of “poetry” is often botched by amateur writers with little understanding or appreciation for english or the mechanics of fine writing. That all being said, this is not a poem. It is undeserving of that title. It’s merely my reflections and memories associated with each of the seasons communicated in an simplistic, organized fashion. I do not mean to say that there are no good amateur poets out there, there are. But I’m relatively new to this. Here ya’ go.

 

Reflections & Memories Associated With the Indecisiveness of Weather We Know As “Seasons”

By TakenForGrant

Spring comes as quickly as it left.

Garden-fresh air carries flowery aromatics and short, cool breezy gusts.

Greens darken a little greener and frost teases to stay.

Cozy, grass stained jeans in the yard.

Like a dream of something that was and suddenly wasn’t.

 

Summer sunbathing daydreams in sun-bleached clothes.

The blue of an ocean-deep sky pouring through your bedroom window.

Heat waves bounce from bright, warm sidewalk walks.

Shade tree views of lively loves.

 

Fall found you alone under a rainy roof.

Fallen verdures and oak catkins thick in the grass.

Rutted roads through the red-yellow speckled hills.

Heavy clouds following above to pitched tents.

Creeper creatures come out to play and whine before the hibernation.

 

Winter wiped clean all sound from sight.

Douglas Fir and chimney smoke.

Crackling tracks in the snow under a pair of blushing, numbing white ears.

Frozen, still horizons emptied out by cold.