Nature is nurture, the future boils down to something larger, like a departure. iT's the seasons that provide this reason, and while we are wheezing (that is, not quite breathing) and not quite seeing this relieving teasing and weaving that these seasons are pleasing, time is freezing, and love is leasing. Springtime is like sunshine written in common time, and sunshine is fine, but the warm shade under the trees and the smell of rain on the breeze, oh, this is beautiful and oh so colorful. iN summer, the sun may come on strong, but its song never steers you wrong as it sings all day long. iT's worry free and it's stressless, like finally cleaning up this nest's mess, or fitting in that red dress. Yes, summer can be so stressless, but this isn't the best yet. Now, in the eyes of some, autumn is the time of death, when the leaves and trees and stars and seas seem to lose their breath. But autumn has such depth and such breadth that this death, oh, it catches our breath, as if those rows of orange flow close to our souls. And our cheeks and nose, colored with a deep rose, seem to reflect those red leaves, those rows of rose. Gradually these trees undress their leaves, as if each tree knows (those rows of rose) of the snow's posed blanket of white, so they undress to sleep their night away, their winter's wondrous might. Winter's white might is powerful, quite right to say, and though some's sight shows it as a plight, show it with fright, the winter's white is truly beautiful. Winter's white's wonder is plentiful, and its love bountiful. Then, after this beautiful wonder (or wonderful beauty), this peaceful and playful cold opens the door to sunshine. Like going from a waltz's time to our fine springtime and sunshine written in common time, and sunshine is fine, but...
