Wheel

I am a creature of seasons,

not affected by, but made of.

In the spring I am flowers,

a lover in the wind,

whispering songs for hours,

with no thought to my reasons,

free and careless.

In the summer I am the river,

that flows with the summer storms,

that weathers the gale,

catching lightning to boil my coffee,

with melted hail.

In autumn I am the leaves,

writing my poems scattered about,

a messy room, an unwashed plate,

a single sock turned inside-out.

In winter I am a tree,

struck bare with ashen skin,

hard and unmoving,

demon of healing,

and saint of sin,

all gather at my table,

to drink of my potions.

I am not disaffected by the seasons,

they are me.

I am not affected by the turn of the wheel,

I am the wheel.

-o0o-