Short Seasons

Short Seasons

When the leaves leap into the air like butterfly bombardiers,
When light and shadow throw sharp edges
Through the red and yellow flocks of hills,
Better breathe a little deeper, a little slower,
Better look a little longer, a little wider,
Taste the harvest tang across the golden fields;
Before the leaves are heaps of corpses blowing
Into the lifelessness of winter,
And clouds close so coldly over--
Don't waste those days.
Don't waste those days.

When the water runs beneath the deep ice at the bottom of the hill;
When the forest blushes like a bride behind
Her budded, branching veil,
Run out into the rain that tickles sleeping seeds,
Pursue every shoot, gather all the lilacs,
Lie upon the earth as if you gave birth too;
When the hose clanks on the thirsty watering can,
When the sun chews all the shrinking shade
And grows it into heat--
You'll miss those days.
You'll miss those days.

Short Seasons by Judy Schilling

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