The Five Seasons

We are the children of Reaper and Bearer, of Time and Reason.

We are the five seasons;

Spring,

Summer,

Autumn,

Winter,

Stone.

My older sister raises echoes into storms, blessed with Mother’s hands for making,

and Father’s eyes for wisdom, a matriarch in the making,

soon to be seated in her flowers.

I am another product of their wedding,
and I have made their spared cells to smolder the world with my smoke.

To scrape the barbed wishes of dandelions down the stem and expel their wishes as smoke through my teeth. I am a warning, shepherding cicadas to wake in the cool mud, the frogs to stay in the pond, the birds to stay in the wind,

I have made myself a spectacle to warn you of what I am.

Autumn is beautiful,

she paints hurt on trees and tells us to look at it.

She doesn’t cry, she doesn’t scream, she just watches as one by one it falls to the ground and is swept away.

Winter is quiet. He cleans after his sisters.

Spring watches as he carries her flowers away.

My cicadas and frogs in his hands, as he trudges to the bear cave

and leaves to wander the quiet.

It helps him think as he weeds away the green,

Father’s only son.

Stone,

she is a grave thing,

or so she believes,

stubborn where she lands,

tough.

But she glitters when she cries,

and I love being her foundation from time to time,

a cool place to lay.

We are all halves of a whole lot,

we are total chaos in our own right,

dutiful in this.