After Alphonse Mucha’s Four Seasons: Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter (c. 1896)
Spring when knowledge felt like teenage love: blush, some words—
branching out, tasting, opening, until the last hour of Summer light—
deepening colors, roots, Autumn chill held back enough for sweeter fruit;
and fireplace warmed the inside, while Winter made its wind-knit drifts:
They came and went, each admired the other.
Filigree months temperately limned the next.
Easy interlace of anticipated days returnings.
One season’s page turned simply to the next.
—then never simply
one day, a child’s life lost
the pages lock into days months years from now
do they open? do they turn?
the seasons lose their posture their gowns
they wear rags with as much dignity as they can
they lose touch with each other
they come in and out aimlessly
forget manners and settings and what they are there for
autumn forgets everything but decaying
freeze tries too hard, has the sod early and deep—
thaw emerges from some hovel with graying hair
spits on the ground in front of her sister
Summer braces herself, tries posture again.
I sit outside in full sun
wrapped in blankets
covered in icicles and dew.
Copyright © 2019 by Bree Devones Hsieh.
