The Four Seasons

By Ruth Burnette

I met my love at seventeen, when life was fresh and new,
Like violets by wooded streams, our love matured and grew.
We spent our springtime growing up with new life all around,
With budding trees and daffodils, what wonder could be found,
Like young animals we reached for life, eager to see the world,
But our world was just the woods and streams, this young boy and his girl.

When summer came we worked the fields, and plowed the golden sod,
And reached our arms up toward the clouds and touched the face of God.

Our crops they grew with wonderous speed, our lives were so complete,
Two girls for me, and a towhead boy who followed at his feet.

The beautiful Summer led into Fall, with leaves of red and gold,
I watch my love and ask myself, “Could we be getting old?”
And then one day when we awoke the sky looked dark and gray,
But why? We thought, we don’t understand, it was beautiful just yesterday-

We watched the wind blow in the snow, this old man and his wife,
Then we knew that this was just the winter of our life.
The days wore on with rain and snow, the trees were bare of leaves,
The cold wind chilled our aging bones, we dreaded the coming freeze.

Then one day through melting snow, we saw a spot of clover
He laid his hand in mine and said, “Winter’s almost over.”
His hand grew limp. I watched it fall, lifeless at his side.
With stabbing pain I looked at him, I knew my love had died.

“He’s gone!” I cried with anguished tears “our seasons have been spent.
There’s nothing left, the end has come, much sooner than we’d meant,”
I remembered his last words, my heart felt young and clean:
Winter’s over, we’ll meet again, and we’ll both be seventeen.