On a Season

A poem about a much- maligned season

To others your name means
Death and despair,
A time of decay,
A nexus between the scorching, sunshine of summer
And the burgeoning spring, pushing its flowers:
In your face: an aggressive ad campaign.

But I can find more beauty,
Walking on crisp, crunchy fields,
Must we see life
To know it is there?

Perhaps there is a fear
Of our own winter to come
When we shall not revisit spring
And our summers all are gone

But I will not be sad
When my spring, summer and autumn have passed
For in winter I can see

Much plain beauty:

In the unadorned trees,
In the crisp, cool air that brightens my cheeks,
In the peace on the streets and in the fields,
While the people hide inside,
Too fixated on spring.