How Strange the Season

How strange the season
Neither warm nor cold,
Minus the hope of planting
And absent the joy of harvest,
Empty in its striving,
Constant motion lacking direction
As the winds of change whisper
In a language unknown,
Hinting at better weather
While disturbing stillness,
Working to lift and carry
The weightless worries of surface thoughts
Like paper clouds seeking dispersal.

Neither the sun nor the moon
Understand this spell,
Their orbits, predictable,
Comfort the blackness of space
That chills and surrounds,
Celestial forces pulling others closer
With attraction sustained,
Never without like kind,
Always grand in scale and beauty,
Unquestioned in purpose,
Unbroken in function,
Neither alive nor lifeless
Like puppets in the hands of God.

Odd, the compulsion
To feel our existence,
Eyes searching for color
Find the black and white of reason
As arms reach out for union
Not to be gained at length,
And words convey only knowledge
To ears in tune with wonder,
Aching to hear the song of hearts
Ablaze amidst the gray ashes
Of a garden devastated by death,
Keen for the promise of its green,
Inviting hope like birth and laughter.