Seasons come, just as they go,
Some times with rain, or sun, or snow,
Giving the land their customised glow,
Or bringing grief when too much in a row,
Just who are we all to really know,
Exactly what next season has in stow?
For it is not us who possess the power,
To control the seasons, hour to hour,
From its mighty ways we may even cower,
Whilst it kills or flourishes every flower,
Perhaps it will topple a mountainous tower,
Then almost all hope it might devour.
Dehydrated leaves could fall,
From dead trees once alive and tall,
As drought makes its deathly call,
Weakening and killing the strong or small,
Bringing dusty, dry devastation to all,
That only the lucky survivors will recall.
A season on and all around,
There may now be snow covered ground,
Frostbitten plants shall then be found,
For it to is deadly, without a sound,
Some may retreat, (warmer season bound,)
Or be buried under a giant icy mound.
Another can bring a wild storm or hurricane,
Creating another season with different pain,
Although bringing always welcomed rain,
Creating a healthy lush green stain,
Still, we hurt from all those it’s slain,
Yet off we go around again.