The Four Seasons

I first heard them in spring.

Transparent traces of music, tunes that soon knew me.

You always said that you heard them later

As they listed on the early hints of July’s breeze.

Through summer we, and the music, found a forte,

No distant flute serenading a calm, lonely night.

Our eyes were fools before our ears, which saw so much better than our eyes anyway.

Each note, coming like Orpheus’ sweetest song,

Had been a new muse that blew around my mind

And you would laugh at the whimsical thought of it all.

In fall the winds began to shift.

Before long even the lonely flute had lost the melody.

Clacks and cracks came in miscalculated chords.

As the baton slowed, the finale tornadoed towards us ever faster.

I tried to tune the orchestra, but by the symphony’s final movement

You had already left the concert hall.


In winter we, and the music,

Had fallen as snow to silence,

Not even a tease of that summer breeze.

You had seen the snow clouds blow in

And left

Before I could even turn to see if you were behind me.

Now, flown back around in my mind ten thousand times,

The symphony sounds the same every time

But I wonder if you even heard it at all.

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