Four Seasons of Self

Spring breeds a sense of renewal,
sweeping away my dust of doubt,
scraping off my grime of refusal,
filling cracks in my soul with its grout.

Summer’s hazy, stifling heat
lends itself to growth
where time and patience meet,
I bloom into a knowledgeable sloth.

Fall ignites my imagination,
breezing new life into stale thoughts,
rekindling smoldering flames of creation,
clearing my mind of brindled thoughts.

Winter tends to steal from some,
precious pieces of vibrant self,
while leaving me less than numb,
filled with a vigor to be my true self.