The Turning Year

The Circle of the Seasons

The year begins with a breath of thaw,

a whisper in the soil beneath the frost,

as if the earth itself exhales after long silence.

Spring is not sudden—

it comes in hesitant notes,

a robin testing its song in the cold dawn,

buds swelling with shy courage on still-bare trees,

rain threading the air like silver stitches,

mending the torn fabric of winter’s cloak.

You can almost hear the ground dreaming,

as green pushes against the brown,

as roots stretch in slow astonishment,

and rivers unlock their icy chains

to tell once more the story of movement.

Children run in wet fields,

shoes sinking into mud as if the earth

were hungry for their laughter,

and every drop of rain becomes a mirror,

catching the sky, multiplying the light.

The days grow longer,

and in their length the world remembers itself.

Lambs stumble across meadows,

orchards blush with blossoms,

and every tree, every hedge, every blade of grass

seems to say: Begin again. Begin again.

Summer follows,

not with hesitation, but with certainty.

The sun climbs high, unashamed,

and spreads its heat like a bold proclamation.

Fields lean heavy with wheat,

corn rustles like a secret told too often,

and the air smells of ripened fruit,

of roses that open wide and hold nothing back.

The sky at dusk burns long and low,

painting the horizon in strokes of copper and violet.

People linger outside,

faces tilted toward the last light,

and laughter stretches into evening

the way shadows stretch across lawns.

Summer is a fullness,

a cup brimming to the lip,

where even the smallest moment—

a bee tangled in lavender,

a child chasing fireflies,

the hum of cicadas droning through the heat—

feels vast, eternal, unforgettable.

But every fullness tips into change.

The fields, once green, begin to bronze.

The air cools its breath,

and evenings carry a sharper edge.

Autumn arrives like an artist with a patient hand,

layering colors upon the trees:

amber, russet, crimson,

a slow-burning fire that consumes nothing

yet transforms everything.

Leaves loosen their grip,

drifting not with sorrow, but with grace,

spiraling as if dancing their final dance.

The harvest gathers,

apples polished red by the sun,

pumpkins glowing in fields like lanterns.

The air tastes of smoke,

of wood fires coaxed into warmth,

and the sound of geese overhead

writes a farewell across the sky.

There is beauty in the fading,

a tenderness in the letting go.

The year teaches us this:

that to release is not always to lose,

but to prepare for rest.

And then comes winter—

not merely the absence of warmth,

but a presence in its own right.

The world slows,

as if every heartbeat is drawn inward,

as if the land itself curls up

beneath a quilt of snow.

The trees stand bare,

their branches written against the pale sky

like ink strokes of an ancient script.

Nights are long,

the stars sharper, colder,

as if distance has brought them closer.

Silence grows thick,

broken only by the crunch of boots on frost

or the sudden call of an owl.

Yet in this hush,

there is a kind of peace that no other season knows.

The hearth glows.

Hands reach for hands.

Stories are told in lamplight,

and even the smallest flame feels holy

against the immensity of the dark.

Beneath the snow,

beneath the stillness,

the earth dreams again—

dreams of thaw, of rain, of robins.

And so the circle turns.

For each season does not vanish,

but folds itself into the next.

Spring carries the memory of winter’s rest.

Summer remembers the courage of spring.

Autumn ripens what summer began.

Winter gathers all the fragments,

holding them in stillness until it is time.

We live within this rhythm,

whether we notice or not.

Our lives echo it:

beginnings that burst with hope,

days of growth and boldness,

seasons of change and letting go,

and quiet winters of reflection.

We, too, are part of this turning—

we, too, are leaves and rivers,

fireflies and frost,

seeds buried, waiting for the sun.

And if you listen closely,

you can hear it always:

the whisper of spring in the rain,

the laughter of summer in the heat,

the song of autumn in the falling leaves,

the prayer of winter in the snow.

The year turns,

and with it, so do we.