on these seasons, a mad blood stirs the darkness of night is a curious things. during the cold winter months it seems to wrap itself around ones domicile. with cold fingers, and an even colder heart…it squeezes. until you can no longer breathe. its demons sift. and the angels pray. it reaps what nature had sewn. as the bears hybernate. and the wolves howl. the fireplace looms ahead with warmth and protection snow blankets which above the wind screams. this is the bitter season. which one feels most alone. the cold begins to drift away, its last clawing memories still etched to the surface, and the leaves begin to bloom. the rain comes in as a reminder of mortality. the sun blanketed by the dark looming clouds. the ground becomes pregnant, and soon births life. it comes sprouting from the ground. the love of mother nature covers the land, while father winter slowly fades away. idling by the side to come again. this is the rebirthing season. Which one feels most at home. Nature continues to sew the seeds of life. The warm sun finds its way from the clouds. And rolling green covets the land. The forest fills once again with life, and there is a smile to be found on every childs face. during the warm summer months, the night is a strange thing. Her crickets give song, an ode to the stars. And everything stands still on its sunset. The morning dew drips from the leaves. As doe’s lead their fawns about the ground. The rivers flow with laughter, and the farmers field echoes with struggle. This is the giving season, which one feels most alive. The crickets begin to die. And the cold begins to claw its way from the ground. Sneaking in, as a thief in broad daylight. It steals away the comfort, and the leaves pass on with violent color. Falling to the ground, covering the moist earth. We dance in rememberance of life. And the night glows purple with warning. The streets crawl with rats, and we look inside purgatory, the ground slowly poisining, father winter begins to squeeze. this is the dying season, Which one feels most of the past. The planet turns to an alarming rate. growing and dying, once more and again. The circle of life, never coming full circle. But turning none the same. We look at our paths never paved in one direction. Taking what one can from the past and growing. With each seasons pass a new lesson learned. And with each moon risen, another gift earned.