A Hymn in Four Seasons

Praise the cracking open of the seed, the blind ambition of the buried root, the robin's first bewildered, breathless creed that spring has come—has come—despite the soot. Praise July and all its heavy gold, the hammock's patient theology of rest, the peach that gives its sweetness uncontrolled, the bee that stumbles, drunken, from its quest. Praise the trees undressing, unashamed, their final show before the long goodbye, the pumpkin sitting fatly, orange, unnamed, the geese rehearsing arrows for the sky. Praise the hush. The candle and the snow. The year gone dark. The faith in what we know.