Passing Pattern—a poem from my adolescence

[after watching so much rain fall and then suddenly hit the dryness, I returned to a poem I wrote as a teenager, when I was obsessed with the four seasons]

the_four_seasons_by_yehouda_chakiPassing Pattern

The time now comes.
The supple, delighted singers soar over me
Spreading the news of the turning,
Before feasting on their crawling prey.
The cold is only beginning to fade, as
The chilling sheets thaw to
Open my veins of foaming blood.
The twitching, whiskered critters
Emerge from within my pores
To prance through the mystical dews.
The soothing showers sweep across my land.
Each drop that touches me revives me,
Rejuvenates my blooming progeny.
My towering children stand tall now,
For they feel the changing dawn.
Their arms spread to welcome
The invigorating flood.
Their buds rekindle the keen colors of my curious spirit.
At the sound of rebirth I open my eyes.
I awaken…

The time now comes.
The buzzing of striped soldiers tells me
They are consuming once again,
And their cities are filled with vibration.
The sun is only beginning to rise, as
The fungus hides to make room for
The dancing of fluttering wings.
Graceful fawns of the fields
Come from within the dense wood
To waltz in the tall grass in the plain.
Fine rays penetrate my once-darkened heavens.
Every beam that warms me, excites me,
Bathes my flourishing world.
My ripe brothers look vivid now,
For they bring forth luscious fruit.
Their hands absorb with pleasure
The glowing embrace.
The harmonious breeze of life is stirring my busy soul.
At the sight of brilliance I stop to hear.
I grow…

The time now comes.
The skittering of laboring critters to me
Are the signs of the culling,
Because their homes are nearly stocked.
The sun is only beginning to set, as
The eye slowly closes to
The winds of a changing moment.
Beasts pause from their toil
Taking one last, sweet moment
To traipse among papery brown shards.
My caretakers’ let down their decaying hands.
The crumbling pieces that rest,
Cover my sheltering flesh.
My mighty sentinels mature now,
For they shed their red-yellow coats.
Their limbs tighten to prepare for
The omens of severity.
The reaping servants of life stimulate my ready mind.
At the hint of gatherings I inhale the spice.
I harvest…

The time now comes.
The quiet, inevitable conclusion allows me
To reflect upon a brisk past,
For the mute rain of cotton brings closure.
The cold is only beginning to reach, as
The mind meditates before
The dusks that freeze my blood.
Prowlers retreat to my bosom
After their farewell to labor
While the little ones glide on glass.
Unique flakes bring hopeful preservation.
The fragile diamonds settle briskly,
Blanketing me with formal purity.
My delicate monuments nod now,
For they bow down to my icy blow.
Their hollow bodies are enveloped in
The chilling reposition.
The dozing sprites of this empty age honor my elegant ghost.
At the feel of distillation I observe the passing.
I sleep…

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