seasons of the soul

"The heart has its seasons, its evenings, and songs of its own."
- The Grateful Dead

Outside,
summer is over.
At night,
the cold autumn wind
is blowing through October
toward November.
Like junkie artists,
the leaves shine awesome colors,
soon to be dead and gone,
and Southern Oregon
bathed in ice

For me, however,
it's different.
The first robin sang the other day,
the last snow melts
and runs down the sides of the streets
in little city rivers.
The roses,
long in tight buds are,
(encouraged by the warm sun)
opening their doors to the air
and the bees

In my woman,
my child grows and,
daughter or son,
this is my sun.
As long as it rises
every day higher in the sky,
how can it be winter for me?