To each a season: the planets
Turn in Kepler's gyre,
Swelling the mental weather,
Fattening the wealth
Of light and dark I weekly
Feel in my own solitude.
To each a season: a death
Of what was hard and cold:
A burst of sun to break
My hoary sadness
And gild the shining tower
I build around your smile.
But let's not talk of sun
But speak instead of life
And all the things I feel
When living through mortality.
The lovely times
We feast and meagre times
We only feed on memories.
I have my seasons.
Tim Holt-Wilson