The Parliament of Seasons
In the Parliament of Seasons, four sovereigns convened.
Each clad in nature's majesty, self-glorified and preened.
They claimed with pride too great to yield, too regal to retreat.
And sharpened words instead of swords, none left their seat.
"Is it not I who persuades the rose to wear a queenly crown?
Who paints the trees in emerald silk after Winter strips them down?
Who taught the lovers their vows, who taught the birds to sing?
Who taught young hearts to dream at all? Pray tell... if not the Spring?"
"Oh, spare us scented lullabies!" laughed Summer, bright aglow,
"Your blossoms fill no hungry belly, nor make the harvest grow.
I forge the wheat, I swell the vine, my fields fill mouths with bread.
Your garden feeds the dreaming eye... I feed the world instead."
Autumn smiled with quiet grace. "Your pride outruns your worth.
You boast of all your blazing days as though you shaped the Earth.
You praise the feast before it's served; I bring the long-awaited yield.
A promise never filled a bowl, nor crowned the labour of the field."
Winter rose with frosted calm, voice as cold as snow.
"You quarrel over painted scenes, yet little do you know.
When comfort leaves one's life, true courage finds its start.
Through hardship's sternest trials, I strengthen every heart."
Spring bowed and confessed, "Old Winter, truth adorns your claim.
I've come to see that roses bloom in more than crimson flame.
Yet some perish while in bud before they reach their hour.
For hope must first learn to endure before it comes to flower."
Summer sighed. "My burning pride has often gone too far.
The same bright sun that ripens grain may leave a painful scar.
The rivers shrink beneath my gaze, the forests gasp for rain.
Great power without gentleness may nourish little gain."
Autumn gathered amber robes. "Even my wisdom bears a cost.
Each tree I dress in splendid gold must mourn what soon is lost.
I teach the grace of letting go, yet farewells stain my art.
The richest harvest still cannot outgrow an aching heart."
Winter closed icy eyes. "Perhaps at times I've also been too wrong.
Not every soul grows stronger when the bitter nights are long.
Some only mistake my silence for a sentence without end.
Even courage, left alone too long, may quietly bend."
The Parliament fell still at last, no seat could win that day.
Each sovereign held a different truth none others could outweigh.
For every heart must bloom and burn, let go, endure, repeat.
No single season shapes a life; each makes the whole complete.
– from the collection *Zenith through Rhyme*
Original poetry and artwork © Zenith Soulspace. All rights reserved.
