THE SEASONS

THE SEASONS

The seasons, they whirl and spin anymore,
Kicking dust in the face like a hurricane.
In Dorothy's tale of  a Kansas folklore,
The seasons rudely call my name.

Fall is for the scarecrow,
Dressed in his Sunday tweeds,
Winter for the tin man and all his oily needs.
Spring is for the land of Oz,
Dazzling in rebirth.
Summer for the Revelation,
To burn and scorch the earth.

Spring the land of Glenda,
Summer the poison ivy's itch.
Fall the glee of crimson leaves,
Winter the wicked witch.

With snow and ice descending,
Chaos catapulting down,
Frightening little dogs like Toto,
Trapped in their one horse towns.

The seasons are spinning out of control,
Burning my heart and searing my soul,
Breaking my spirit and bursting my bubble,
My brain like the scarecrow in terrible trouble,
My limbs like the tin man, no longer supple.

No one to scratch my itch,
Except perhaps the wicked witch.
Flying monkeys in my path,
With calculators doing math,
Adding up the time I've left,
Leaving me old and quite bereft.

The seasons, they whirl and spin anymore,
And i am waiting at the door,
The door of heaven where the seasons are one,
Where the days are marked by the grace of God,
And an everlasting sun.

-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2014
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED