by Mike Duran
Seasons wash the daily chore
and dance outside the shuttered door,
entwine themselves around the mood—
when pressed to stay, they then elude.
Winter coldness death bespeaks,
parts the veil of spring, to greet
ageless warmth of summers’ peak,
autumns yawn in search of sleep.
Rooted in decomposition,
gorged upon the earth’s attrition;
reconstruct and bend the balance,
twilight’s blossom incandescence.
Souls of clay dissent in vain,
tilted skyward in refrain;
earthen orbit rents the trance
and sweeps them up within the dance.