Song to Seasons

I sing with your petals in my throat, Spring;
you, with roses as antithesis to snowdrops, vibrate
in your glass menagerie of birds twittering
to pet-clouds morphing in the wind. You teach
me to scratch off the melancholic light
of dead hours still stuck under my nails.

Then ragged clouds come from the ocean
and the sky, forged by lightning,
dresses days’ hips in lemon trees
and brazen spikes of wheat. I am your child,
Summer; as fast as thunder, I absorb
your lightforce that flows in my fingers.

When you, Autumn, come, you show me
he contiguity of flame and ice.
In a vertigo of red and chants from vineyards,
you harvest grapes and leave
nakedness that tastes of salt. I start
forgetting the flavor of sun in my body.

And you, Winter, make me lose myself
in the opium of your shapeless monotony.
In the white abyss that is a poem to burials,
tenacious cobwebs entrap solitary boats
full of rotten fish. I raise my hands
to wave goodbye, but they’re a frozen sculpture.

Paula Grenside’s questions:

1: Is this line: “in your glass menagerie of birds twittering” a bit too precious? I liked
the image I associate with it, but maybe it is not that clear for readers.
2: Is the tone suitable for the topic?
3: Is the sensory imagery effective?

Thank You,

Paula Grenside

Reply directly to the poet: arrigo.boer (at) fastwebnet (dot) it