Some people have a favourite season

The beautiful bright sunny days of Summer

perhaps the subtle colours of Autumn

Maybe the endless smells of Spring

or the cosiness that only Winter can bring.

Me… I fell in love with the changes in seasons

they are like my children

Everyone with their own mystique

changing before my eyes while growing up to be unique.

I ...

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Documenting the silence 
the bus stop is almost reclaimed by nature
until the bus arrives after a long conversation
with the broken country path
in a meditative rhythm each morning 

disgorging the mood 
its wheels on cast aside leaves
inbetween the sun barely awake 
in the early morning sky
and the sinking moon 

recording the moment afterwards
restlessly in symmetries in gentle wind
...

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Spring fluffs fall like snow
"all is lost; our end is mud"
but wake up a tree

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no wintry night beats
and rattles my windowpane
like Marley's ghost

the freezing gusts, too, are a farce,
so is the unlawful snow

the Spring is just concealed
a bit short of here;
I know
buds begin swelling
though carpeted with ice
to delay

© Brian Hodgkinson Jr. (aka) Limericist 2021

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“De Temps En Temps,” by Josephine Baker. That’s what I was listening to. Funny now to think I'd ever forget how it felt, something like that. 

Alone and facing my death in a stranger’s beach house, next to a dark, cold, ocean in the dead of Winter.

I ate Dove chocolates and soaked in a warm bath with bubbles to the brim, and listened to “De Temps en Temps,” while lifting a razor to...

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Winter weeping must now let go
its bitter grip of ice and snow;
frost-bitten trees burst out in leaf,
and soon forget their latest grief.
The sun breaks through to heat the earth,
gives mass-explosion of green birth,
the land throws off its captive's hold,
so earth perfumes can now grow bold.

Let go of all the former things;
a bumblebee twice never stings
and change is sure, as certain...

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feathered fuchsia tree
fuzzy seeds, float freely, fall–
mission: flower tree

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a thought came
twirling down
from a graying November tree,
one of the last to fall,
announcing,

'look at all my crusts of death,
and answer me.

--bipeds of clay,
do you doubt when
howling winds, ice, and snow
embalm
our root to rock,
that Spring will squeeze
out of us
baby buds again?

for each change
the wintertime will become warm,
the dark will lift,
the lawns will need a...

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letter to spring / michael kwack

in a wind

there i smell a scent of spring

i've passed the winter away

in a far place alone

but it was now

only hours of emptiness

i've got to write letters

the last confession to myself

then meet the spring

in complete quietness

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it's right underneath,

brewing under my chest

this quiet whisper circling-

not spiraling downwards as 

i often tend to, but in a way a

gentle breeze swirls a handful

of leaves and they flutter away.

there's an inquisitive nature 

to it where there is somehow a

sense of magic at hand, and yet

somehow there must be a reason

to it all. a scientific process that 

al...

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