Winter awakens.
Autumn is dead—
summer’s sacrifice.
Winter is survival.
Curled into fetal position,
enduring scarcity
in a world of gray and white,
surviving in the time
of short days and longer nights.
Spring, newly conceived,
sets root, launches fresh green shoots,
in winter’s womb she grows stronger
and more complex by leaps and bounds.
Days lengthen and
the time for revolution arrives.
Waters break.
Winter groans, contorts,
contracts, cries out—
then dies in childbirth.
The Summer child:
precocious, flamboyant,
exuberant—
barefoot in a bikini.
Adorned
with swirls of sultry blues,
ravenous reds, passionate purples,
frolicking—
skipping—
dancing—
to the point of exhaustion.
In time, Sunburned,
overheated
by dog-day fevers.
Leaves and blossoms
melt and fade
into subtle amber hues,
rusted reds,
milk-chocolate browns.
Depressed dying leaves drift, lifeless.
Dormant seeds
drop into Mother Earth’s soft comforting lap—
Autumn’s deathbed.
Autumn is dead—
summer’s sacrifice.
Winter reincarnated,
awakens.
© 2025 Bruno Talerico
Stafford challenge 295/365.
Desert Dweller 