Seasons
There are four, and yet I only know one. As if they were as old as the sun.
On a spring night, beneath the twilight, we met as lovers do.
The warmth spread, till my fingertips could feel the lines of your palms,
Maybe summer,was the charm. The swelter of the breeze, when you had slept clutching a book under the blossom tree.
For what its worth, a stray lavender fell, disenchanted, like autumn’s spell.
Wilted flowers, in the pages of the poetry book you read. Dont give me flowers, you said.
They wither, like winters freeze.
In the snow I drew patterns, and then I wrote your name.
In hopes, you’d see and smile, with promise of a sunny day.
For days of thunder, watching the rain,
Spying your silhouette, across the window pane.
Sometimes like the wind, you come back each day, sometimes unintended,
Like summer rain.
Seasons, all of them are serene. Each igniting hope, anew.
Inspite of all, memory,seems to recall.
the only Season I knew.
You.
