Spring— 

The ice that claws the rocks, sands

And barriers of the shore

Rots in the sun. The ice gives 

A final exhausted cough

As its fingers lose their grip.

Summer— 

From the hazed curve of the shore

To the painted horizon,

The cobalt waters glitter

Beneath a fathomless sky,

And the all-triumphant sun.

Autumn— 

Now the waters grow fitful,

And they batter the dumb sand.

A shrewish wind whips the clouds,

And it strips the bending trees,

Strewing the beach with brown leaves. 

Winter— 

The days wane and the light goes, 

And the waters, like the joints

Of an old man, seize and creak.

Of God’s breath upon these sands

I say only: It froze my tears.

Posted by tmg110 at 8:23 AM CDT

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