The Oldest Story

The world begins to slowly yawn,

And stretches in the light,

As timid, green-shooted grass is born,

And days outlast the night.

The Spring arrives with gentle hands,

And winter's grip she breaks,

She paints the sleeping, thawing lands,

For new beginnings' sakes.

Then Summer comes, a vibrant queen,

In robes of green and gold,

The richest world you've ever seen,

A story bravely told.

The sun sits high, a kingly throne,

The air is thick and sweet,

A time for seeds that Spring has sown,

To grow and be complete.

But Autumn whispers, crisp and clear,

And touches every tree,

The message that the end is near,

For all the world to see.

She sets the woods and forests blaze,

In brilliant, final fire,

A breathtaking and gorgeous phase,

Before the world tires.

Then Winter, in his cloak of white,

Lays silence, deep and deep,

He tucks the land in for the night,

While all the world's asleep.

His is a hush, a time of rest,

A blanket, clean and new,

To give the weary earth it's best,

And make it born anew.

So turns the page, the chapter old,

The story never done,

A tale of heat and a tale of cold,

Beneath the same bright sun.