Cycle

Autumn is an artist with a careless brush, Spilling many colors in his eager rush, Daubing his canvas with red and gold, Then rushing off to get out of the cold.

Nurse Winter tucks blankets around Mother Earth, Hushes the household of children’s mirth, Sits by Earth's bedside and attends to her needs, Till a new Spring at her full breast she feeds.

Spring is the new-born, all rosy and sweet, Crawling about at Mother Earth’s feet, Learning to walk and to laugh and to play; All too soon now, he will hurry away.

The teen-ager, Summer, is part child, part man, Spring growing up -- how brief his life span! Awkward and naive, but brave to the core; Mother Earth sighs, and starts knitting once more.