Seasons are endless passages of time growing old as fig leaves shrunken and lost upon a disheveled shelf—leaving fear in our eyes
With each waking, golden visage resting upon many gifted mornings of grey doves and ashen skies kissing a verdant paradise, tomorrow inevitably appears
’Tis pure decadence to an eye’s pleasantries within a mere sight of light dashing and bouncing off a magical world of color
We long to snatch each glowing moment of such delights in jars—they become our dreams and wishes
In millenniums of space holding us upon a cradling universe, sculpted by mysteries in both heaven and sky, we muse within our minds—we stumble upon magic
We create our own speckled, starry skies with a life fulfilled by hope
Each sacred jar collected is a gossamer strand on a carefully crafted web of magic, weaving our dreams into reality
Within our royal season, we learn of life’s resplendence
Still, like all seasons, with time our mortal existence shrivels
As old fig leaves, we slowly wrinkle and change colors
We wax bold with wisdom, like earth giants disguised as ageless trees reaching for galaxies beyond their grasp
When young, we long to thrive off sapphire skies, anew and plush like silkin skins of vibrant, blossoming petals
By and by, we admire shriveled trunks, old and begat with dust, aging—leaves fallen by a soft, gusty wind
Thus, we long to become like an old fig tree—our bodies in like fashion growing
Fading in their seasons, burnt with forest reds, our bodies binding with earthy mud and growing cold upon winter’s end