Our birth is just the springtime,

Of what was our creation,

Loving parents held us tight,

Swathed us with adoration. 


The summer of our lifetime,

We came into full bloom,

Like rose unfolding as it's watched,

Sweet scent of its perfume.


Fall is our middle age,

And when we stop to pause,

 Marvel at progress we’ve made,

In smoothing of our flaws.


In Winter we reflect upon,

The fruits of seasons passed,

Success and even heartbreaks,

As tokens we’ve amassed.


So smooth were our transitions,

We hardly noticed them at all,

Until we were awakened,

By the chill of winter’s call.


©  2003  Loree (Mason) O’Neil



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