Seasons of My Heart

Seasons passing, quickly go.
The more we grow older,
the more swiftly they are gone.

Why winter, cold and bitter
would not be my season?
one could never guess.
It seems to be what I am completely.
This hurtful, spiteful, lonely one
Winter should be me
Try to stay warm –
“hand in my father’s glove.”
“the ice is getting thin.”

Then spring comes and the thaw
but there is no thaw for me
my heart stays ice and cold.
My body freezing,
and I shudder at a touch.
Buds are blooming and birds sing.
I do not bloom –
the heart I had was crushed
and so the whole plant died.
And singing is something
this bird will never do again
there is no “Amazing Grace”.

Summer comes – I begin to try
The heat becomes enough to warm my skin
to someone’s touch; whose – what does that matter.
It doesn’t.
The brilliant sun brings me movement
In spite of, and against, my icy heart.
Nothing means anything.

And into it Fall,
Autumn leaves fall and so does everything else
for as nothing matters
what has attached itself to me
go must leaves
leaves find new lovers
I can not give you what I do not know,
what I have not to give.

And winter comes again...