Seasons come and seasons go. None is first and none is last, for they come and go in their mild and in their harsh, as a loose fitting circle, which is reflective of the daily striving continuous spiral spin that rotates round and round. The timeless survey of natural logic doesn’t give it stature, even if it identifies a form for it, because no single day start a season or indeed end one, no matter how melodramatic it turns out to be. Season build gradually into what it must be.

On different occasions, with one glorious dawn or a hideous evening; with a frightening spectacle shrouding the day, one season melts into a void that cocoons into a state of anticipation and sense. One season would caterpillar about in lethargic walking days, then it timely folds in the secrecy of yet another. Suddenly it flies out in beautiful open splendor, with its refreshing breath of colour and life. In between is a mingled confusion of silent insolent void that is none but yet both.

Monarch butterfly
Life feels like it is indeed a continuous spade of senses and seasons


Cold, harsh and hard winter.
As skins feel and muster,
The senses repel this monster.

Water, green and breed spring.
As tongues taste and sing,
The senses eat everything.

Warm, lazy but busy summer.
As eyes see and shimmer,
The senses ponder in wonder.

Windy, dry and dead autumn.
As ears hear and minds fathom,
The senses prepare the burial drum.

the poet in the poet - Copy
The Poet in the Poem

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