Seasons, by Robert Seth Whittaker

In early spring, a mother sings

Of love, and joyous tears it brings.

Could it be the most wondrous thing

To hear a newborn cry?

This mother seems to think it so,

For she shall never let him go.

But she will know, when sorrow shows,

That she must let him fly.

She holds her child for a while

With her love just like the Nile.

Whet your Mona Lisa smile

And kiss him with a sigh.

In time, young mother, you will learn

The answer to your woeful yearn.

A summer breeze brings Maple trees,

Melons sprouting from their seeds,

And a young man who thinks he sees,

But, oh, he is so blind.

Do not look for love, my son,

For it shall come when youth is done.

And it is not a path to run,

So you must take your time.

Free yourself of all your fears,

Guard your heart throughout the years,

Exonerate your wasted tears,

And let your spirit shine.

But, Son, beware a path awry

Toward demons in your lustful eye.

Autumn days of colored haze

Turn the leaves that brightly blaze.

A once-young man is finding grays,

But that is not his fret.

His mother who had held him near

Does not have much longer here,

And deep inside he has a fear

That he’s not paid his debt.

He holds his mother, his abode,

With his love he never showed.

Forgive yourself and let her go,

Along with your regret.

Bridges burned can be rebuilt,

But not if bound by grief and guilt.

The winter snow would come and go,

Though chilling winds would ever blow,

Along with souls from long ago,

Upon my shaken bones.

I saw the seasons seeming shorter

Through years of distance, doubt, disorder.

But in the end of this final quarter,

My soul, it ceased to roam.

I felt the warmth of a mother’s kiss;

I found the truth that youth dismissed;

And now I simply rest in bliss.

My heart has found its home.

I now see earth in all its light

As I taste the final breath of life…

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