In the Year of the Child

Winter came first in the year of the child
When the heather was green and the weather was mild,
When the sun was gold on the wings of the storm.
There was threat of cold; there was tease of chill
But the face of the winter was beautiful, still,
And the heart of the winter was warm.

Autumn came next in the year of the child
And the vagabond fall heard the call of the wild
For there's grain nearby but the wild geese know
It's the distant sky where the soul is fed.
For the autumn can flourish on water and bread
But when called, it will answer and go.

Spring followed fall in the year of the child
But the floods and the muds and debris that were piled
Stopped the joyful song as the spring awoke
And the nights were long but the flowers grew
And though muted, though still, still they made their way through
And they burst at the spring, and it spoke.

Summer came last in the year of the child
With its long banjo nights when the lights were beguiled
And the music flashed like a lightning hurled.
Then the thunder crashed like a throbbing drum,
And its voice was a gift for the morning to come
When the summer will sing for the world.

Seasons I love in the year of the child
When the months are not made to parade single-filed,
When the part is whole and whole is part,
And where time's own soul is a place they share.
Any year has its seasons but none can compare
To this year that I hold in my heart.

Merry Christmas, 1997