The Silence Between Seasons

The Silence Between Seasons Seasons — our way of squaring natural circles, of building a four-cornered house for time. But we live between these angles, beside the four connecting walls. When winter thaws, the landscape flattens, open but bare. Like hope without sustenance, leafless trees bear blossoms. We trust, like burried seed, that cold won't come again. We lie in sun, on edges of pools whose waters hold winter. We warm, but the skin ripples under the wind like the mind under its memories. Then cloudburst. Late summer laps up water like a dog. Dust swirls. Leaves crackle under heat, but cling to limbs as if expecting spring. We know better. But passion burnt, we won't let go. What there was is harvested and stored. What's left is dead but not yet buried. It rattles life by day. But night comes, and frost, and what blew free is coffined by ice to the earth. BETTY FLOWERS ...