Light sits differently

lingering in the sky like

an old man on his rocking

chair on the porch.

Birds chirp in the once

silent mornings,

the air smells of spruce needles,

ice melts off the boardwalks

and ponds and the dog swims again.

When I think of seasons passing by,

My mind goes to puffy white clouds, drifting across the blue sky,

Giving us momentary relief as they still for a while,

Only to disappear, not to be seen again for miles.

These clouds never seem to stay put in one place,

They're constantly shifting, changing their pace,

But when I look at the colors of the horizon, fading into one another, time and time again,

I feel a glaring truth in my brain:I feel a glaring truth in my brain:

The seasons will change and so will we,

Everything is temporary.