Below is a poem inspired by the passage of time and the changing seasons.
The Patient Earth
The quiet dust of autumn on the pane,
A whispered sigh, the end of sunlit days.
The summer's lease expires with gentle rain,
And fades to gold through misty, cooling haze.
The stubborn earth, a quiet, slumbering heart,
Resigns its green, its fleeting, floral hour.
Each leaf, a masterpiece, must now depart,
And paint the air with its descending shower.
A fragile sun, a low and patient gleam,
Draws short the shadows, calls the evening near.
And in the solace of this muted dream,
A promise waits to banish winter's fear.
For all that goes returns in measured turn,
A cycle old, a truth and trutj trigger
As shadows lengthen and the last leaves fall,
The world prepares for winter's quiet hold.
The sun, a colder witness to it all,
Paints frosted scenes in silver, white, and gold.
The stubborn earth, now muffled, soft, and deep,
Resigns to rest beneath a coming snow.
While bare-limbed trees stand witness as they sleep,
A solemn promise whispered from below.
For winter's chill holds not an endless night,
But incubates the secret of the seed.
The fragile sun will grow in slow, sure might,
And answer nature's deep and patient need.
The earth will turn, and turn again to green,
And bring the spring from all that lies unseen.
From frosted eaves, the pale light of the dawn
Reflects on winter's intricate design,
A fleeting art on grasses, hard and drawn,
A silent world where fragile patterns shine.
And in the cold, where all seems hushed and still,
A secret warmth resides within the ground,
A patient hope, a deep and vital will,
A promise whispered without any sound.
So let the bitter winds and gray days pass,
The world will wait and dream its coming green.
For life, reborn beneath the winter glass,
Is the most patient and enduring scene.
The turning year, a steadfast, constant thing,
Will break the silence with the songs of spring.
(Stanza 4)
The winter's stillness holds the frosted air,
And dormant strength beneath the patient snow.
A quiet hope, a promise held with care,
For dormant life that waits its time to grow.
The branches creak, a skeletal design,
Against a sky of muted, fading blue,
A silent world that waits for spring's new sign,
And dreams of all the life it will renew.
(Stanza 5)
The winter sun, a pale and distant coin,
Gives just enough to etch the stark relief
Of barren fields and evergreens that join
The patient wait beyond all mortal grief.
A fragile light that keeps the cold at bay,
And holds the memory of yesterday.
(Stanza 6)
The biting wind a sculptor, sharp and clear,
Carves drifts of white along the sleeping lane.
The muffled world, it has no song to hear,
But the soft sound of snow upon the pane.
The world becomes a canvas, white and clean,
Awaiting strokes of green and gold and light,
A pristine and unblemished, perfect scene,
That slowly melts and vanishes from sight.
(Stanza 7)
But in the long and slow retreat of cold,
A subtle change, a softening of the frost.
The weary, frosted earth begins to hold
A future green that was not truly lost.
The brittle ice along the river's edge,
Gives way to whispers from the hidden sedge.
(Stanza 8)
A silver gleam, a swelling in the root,
A secret stirring where the cold has been.
A nascent life, a quiet, growing shoot,
The silent, slow rebellion from within.
The sun returns, with longer, warmer grace,
To call the sleeping world with golden hand,
And warm the hidden life within this place,
A gentle warmth that softens all the land.
(Stanza 9)
The first soft green, a hesitant, bright thread,
Unfurls upon the black and broken bough.
The hopeful world awakens from the dead,
The old world dies, and something new is now.
The crocuses, a purple, yellow line,
A fragile herald, first of spring's design.
(Stanza 10)
The robin's breast, a flash of fire and joy,
A song of welcome to the longer day.
A simple sound that nothing can destroy,
And tells the winter's weary heart to stray.
The swollen buds, a promise on the air,
A silent music, ready to unfold,
A subtle change beyond all thought or care,
A story whispered, delicate and old.
(Stanza 11)
The rushing melt, a music in the stream,
A swollen torrent where the trickles ran.
The world awakes from its long, silent dream,
A new beginning, following the plan.
The sky is washed, a clearer, brighter hue,
As rain descends and washes all anew.
(Stanza 12)
The scent of earth, a rich and dark perfume,
A fragrant signal from the turning loam,
Of life returned from winter's quiet tomb,
And busy creatures building a new home.
The tender leaves unfold a hopeful hand,
A vibrant curtain on the forest floor,
And life returns across the grateful land,
And knocks with gentle patience at the door.
(Stanza 13)
The days stretch out, a slow and golden pull,
And light returns to linger and to stay.
The world revives, and fills and overflows,
With life and light and promise every day.
The buzzing hum of insects on the breeze,
The ancient life that whispers through the trees.
(Stanza 14)
The patient sun, a constant, golden heat,
Draws forth the life that winter held concealed.
And time resumes its old, familiar beat,
And every leaf and hidden bud is revealed.
The endless green, a lush and verdant sea,
The world alive with color and with sound,
A symphony for all the world to see,
On every slope and over every ground.
(Stanza 15)
The heavy air, a humid, thick caress,
The scent of blossom on the lazy wind.
The world is caught in summer's sweet excess,
And time unfolds, a slow and endless mind.
The long, slow twilight, lingering and deep,
While fireflies in constellations creep.
(Stanza 16)
The drowsy hum of bees in heavy flight,
The taste of honey and the sun-warmed fruit.
The world is drenched in golden, hazy light,
A life that reaches down to find its root.
The languid heat, a slow and sleepy pace,
As shadows stretch, and lengthen and then fade,
Reflecting back the sun's warm, soft embrace,
Upon a world that summer's hand has made.
(Stanza 17)
But in the heat, a turning of the light,
A sharpened edge to green and gold and red.
The faintest whisper in the endless night,
A hint of changes that are still ahead.
A cooler breeze that stirs the drooping leaves,
And softly tells the world what it believes.
(Stanza 19)
The quiet dust of autumn on the pane,
A whispered sigh, the end of sunlit days.
The summer's lease expires with gentle rain,
And fades to gold through misty, cooling haze.
The stubborn earth, a quiet, slumbering heart,
Resigns its green, its fleeting, floral hour.
Each leaf, a masterpiece, must now depart,
And paint the air with its descending shower.
(Stanza 20)
A fragile sun, a low and patient gleam,
Draws short the shadows, calls the evening near.
And in the solace of this muted dream,
A promise waits to banish winter's fear.
For all that goes returns in measured turn,
A cycle old, a truth we slowly learn.
(Stanza 21)
As shadows lengthen and the last leaves fall,
The world prepares for winter's quiet hold.
The sun, a colder witness to it all,
Paints frosted scenes in silver, white, and gold.
The stubborn earth, now muffled, soft, and deep,
Resigns to rest beneath a coming snow.
While bare-limbed trees stand witness as they sleep,
A solemn promise whispered from below.
(Stanza 22)
From frosted eaves, the pale light of the dawn
Reflects on winter's intricate design,
A fleeting art on grasses, hard and drawn,
A silent world where fragile patterns shine.
And in the cold, where all seems hushed and still,
A secret warmth resides within the ground,
A patient hope, a deep and vital will,
A promise whispered without any sound.
(Stanza 23)
The cycle turns, and turns, and turns again,
The seasons dance, a rhythm in the air.
The sun, the snow, the warming, gentle rain,
A constant truth that chases all despair.
And in this dance, a quiet truth is found,
That all things fade, but always will return.
The spinning earth, a slow and silent round,
A lesson taught, and endless, slow to learn.
(Stanza 25)
The hidden life beneath the frozen streams,
The sleeping fish, the silent, waiting things.
A world of quiet, subterranean dreams,
That waits for water when the wild swan sings.
The fragile film of ice upon the pond,
A looking-glass for all the gray and bare,
Reflecting scenes from worlds that lie beyond,
And holds the still and sleeping spirit there.
(Stanza 26)
The winter night, a long and peaceful sleep,
Beneath the stars, a cold and diamond sheet.
The frosted breath, a rising, gentle steep,
A universe of silence, hushed and sweet.
The quiet cold that settles all around,
A gentle hush that soothes and calms and clears,
And brings a peace with its soft, muffled sound,
And stills the frantic nature of our fears.
(Stanza 27)
The coming dawn, a pink and pearly hue,
That edges through the deep and starless black.
The weary, sleeping world is born anew,
And slowly starts its old, familiar track.
The quiet shift, the turning of the tide,
The subtle change that all the wise ones see,
And all the life that winter holds inside,
Begins its climb toward all that it can be.
(Stanza 28)
The wind returns, a sharper, clearer air,
And pulls the frozen branches, waking them.
A quickening, a sense of things to bear,
A stirring in the dark and hidden stem.
The world expands, and breathes a longer breath,
And sheds the heavy burden of the past,
And leaves behind the quiet, final death,
For light and warmth that are not meant to last.
(Stanza 29)
The river swells, a roaring, icy cry,
As sheets of winter break and drift and slide.
A cleansing rush beneath a changing sky,
And takes the last of winter with its tide.
The world is washed, and made a new design,
By rushing torrents and the cleansing rain,
And every patch of dark and hidden ground,
Receives the seed that starts the dance again.
(Stanza 30)
The gentle sun, a longer, kinder light,
Reflects upon the softened, yielding earth.
The slow return, the patient, sure-thing might,
That brings the ancient miracle of birth.
The fragile buds begin their slow descent,
To meet the world and face the growing sun,
A quiet, perfect moment, slowly lent,
Before the coming summer has begun.
(Stanza 31)
The gentle rain, a soft and constant beat,
That falls upon the newly opened leaves.
A quiet wash, a patient and soft sheet,
That nature gathers and the world receives.
The world drinks deep, a long and thirsty drink,
And fills with light and life and gentle sound,
And all the things that grow and think and link,
Are drawn from out the rich and turning ground.
(Stanza 32)
The morning mist, a soft and hazy screen,
That hangs upon the rising, patient hills.
A verdant, growing, almost silent scene,
That slowly fills with green and growing thrills.
The vibrant life, a surge of silent power,
That moves and grows within the fertile soil,
And fills the world with its unfolding hour,
And ends the long and heavy winter's toil.
(Stanza 34)
The longer days, a slow and golden climb,
And shadows shorten as the sun ascends.
The world is caught within the gentle time,
The hopeful season that will have its ends.
The buzzing life, a constant, growing hum,
As busy creatures move and seek and find,
And fills the world with all the joys to come,
And leaves the winter's weary past behind.
(Stanza 35)
The heavy air, a slow and patient breath,
The scent of blossom on the warmer air.
The summer comes, a slow and gentle death,
To all the fragile hope of spring, and care.
The long, slow days, the sun that never goes,
And fills the world with long and hazy light,
As tired blossoms slowly find their close,
And weary daylight settles in for night.
(Stanza 36)
The languid heat, a slow and sleepy pace,
The drowsy hum of bees on heavy wing.
The world is caught within a sweet embrace,
A gentle dance where only summer sings.
The long, slow shadows stretching on the grass,
The gentle hush, the sun that slowly fades,
As quiet moments slowly, gently pass,
And fill the silent, watchful, sleepy glades.
(Stanza 37)
But in the heat, a turning of the leaf,
A crimson whisper, hidden in the green.
A silent message, beautiful and brief,
A simple change, a simple, fleeting scene.
The world begins its slow and golden turn,
As summer fades and gives its gentle sighs,
A patient lesson that we slowly learn,
Within the golden turning of the skies.
(Stanza 38)
The harvest fields, a rustling, golden sigh,
As gentle breezes stir the heavy grain.
The world prepares for autumn passing by,
And feels the chill that comes with gentle rain.
The fading sun, a deeper, slanted gold,
The longer shadows on the fields of hay,
A story ancient and a tale of old,
Of golden moments, fading with the day.
(Stanza 39)
The first soft frost, a delicate, white grace,
That settles on the window glass at dawn.
A gentle beauty, found within this place,
A perfect, frosted pattern on the lawn.
The world retreats, and slowly pulls its breath,
And sheds the weight of summer's heavy green,
A quiet movement, and a slow, soft death,
That brings the silent, fragile, winter scene.
(Stanza 40)
The leaves descend, a slow and colored rain,
A crimson, yellow, gentle, falling sheet.
A fragile story, whispered in the lane,
And rustles softly underneath our feet.
The world is painted, and a work of art,
Upon the ground and in the patient air,
As every fragile, fading leaf takes part,
And settles slowly with a patient care.
(Stanza 41)
The fading light, a slow and gentle hue,
A perfect, golden, patient, lasting gleam.
The weary world is softly born anew,
As life retreats and enters in a dream.
The quiet sigh of evening on the breeze,
The gentle close of summer's golden day,
And silent whispers drifting through the trees,
Of life that softly, gently drifts away.
(Stanza 42)
The wind returns, a colder, sharper cry,
That whistles softly through the hollow wood.
A gentle warning as the days go by,
That winter's waiting, patient and subdued.
The world is still, and quiet, and at peace,
And watches with a calm and knowing eye,
As colors fade and golden moments cease,
Beneath the gray and ever-changing sky.
(Stanza 43)
The final leaf, a slow and patient fall,
Upon the earth, a last and quiet grace.
The world is silent, waiting for the call,
Of winter's cold, and winter's quiet space.
The ancient pulse, the slow and patient beat,
That moves within the earth and in the air,
A slow and final, bittersweet retreat,
And leaves the world in gentle, patient care.
(Stanza 44)
The early snow, a first and gentle sheet,
That falls upon the still and quiet ground.
A perfect, soft, and gentle, white retreat,
That settles slowly with a silent sound.
The world is washed, and clean, and white and still,
And rests beneath the soft and gentle snow,
As winter settles slowly on the hill,
And holds the life that waits for it to go.
(Stanza 45)
The heavy gray, the low and quiet sky,
The sun a distant and a yellow haze.
The world is still, beneath the seasons' eye,
And watches winter's slow and patient ways.
The quiet days, the slow and patient pace,
The waiting life beneath the frozen earth,
And watches in this slow and gentle place,
The coming promise of a quiet birth.
(Stanza 46)
The turning wheel, a constant, steady spin,
That moves and turns within the patient air.
The old world ends, and the new will begin,
A constant, gentle, patient, endless stair.
The seasons flow, a constant, steady stream,
Of life and light and quiet, gentle change,
A waking world from winter's silent dream,
And turning slowly through its patient range.
(Stanza 47)
The river flows, a slow and silent art,
Beneath the frozen, icy, patient crust.
The living pulse, the slow and beating heart,
Of all the worlds that wait for gentle trust.
The patient time, the slow and gentle hold,
That winter keeps within its silent breath,
And slowly lets the ancient truth unfold,
Of life that conquers all the quiet death.
(Stanza 48)
The gentle sun, a slow and steady climb,
Reflects upon the cold and frozen ground.
The patient turning of the patient time,
And waits to hear the slow and patient sound.
The waking world, the slow and gentle call,
Of warming light upon the patient snow,
And watches winter's slow and final fall,
And waits for all the patient things to grow.
(Stanza 50)
The final line, the final, gentle word,
Of endless cycles, and of things that turn.
The simple lesson that the world has heard,
The patient learning that we slowly learn.
The sun returns, the seasons turn and flow,
The old world fades, and the new one begins,
The gentle life that comes with patient snow,
And ends the tale, and all the constant spins.
(Stanza 18)
The days draw in, a subtle, slow retreat,
As colors deepen and begin to burn.
The harvest moon, a yellow, patient sweet,
Upon the world that watches and will turn.
The fading sun, a softer, slanted gold,
Reflects upon the world with knowing eyes,
A story ancient and a tale of old,
Of summer's end, and autumn's new surprise.
(Stanza 24)
The river flows, in sunshine and in sleet,
The ancient water, rushing to the sea.
The constant pulse, the slow, relentless beat,
Of time that holds all things in unity.
The rising tides, the falling of the moon,
A universe that sings a silent tune.
(Stanza 33)
The early flowers, a splash of fragile paint,
Upon the still and quiet, yielding lawn.
The world begins without a single taint,
A perfect, clean and freshly-painted dawn.
The world is born, and born and born again,
Without a whisper and without a sound,
And all the life that follows on the rain,
Is drawn from out the deep and fertile ground.
(Stanza 49)
And so it turns, the ancient, quiet dance,
The changing seasons, and the turning years.
The constant promise, and the patient chance,
That follows all the slow and gentle tears.
The old world dies, and the new world is born,
A gentle cycle, peaceful and complete,
And turns again with every quiet morn,
The steady, constant, gentle, slow, beat
(Stanza 51)
The whispered words of seasons come and go,
A silent promise written in the air,
A life that waits beneath the sleeping snow,
A quiet hope that chases all despair.
And in this dance, a quiet truth is found,
That all things fade, but always will return,
The spinning earth, a slow and silent round,
A lesson taught, and endless, slow to learn.
(Stanza 52)
The river flows, in sunshine and in sleet,
The ancient water, rushing to the sea.
The constant pulse, the slow, relentless beat,
Of time that holds all things in unity.
The rising tides, the falling of the moon,
A universe that sings a silent tune.
(Stanza 53)
The hidden life beneath the frozen streams,
The sleeping fish, the silent, waiting things.
A world of quiet, subterranean dreams,
That waits for water when the wild swan sings.
The fragile film of ice upon the pond,
A looking-glass for all the gray and bare,
Reflecting scenes from worlds that lie beyond,
And holds the still and sleeping spirit there.
(Stanza 54)
The winter night, a long and peaceful sleep.
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