The July sun shines down on a seashore, with soothing sounds of crashing waves
Beachgoers scampering over scorching sand, breathing salt-scented air
Playfully they splash then peacefully they relax near large pools of pearlescent water
Trees throw on a cowl of brown and temperatures drop down, as autumn is renowned
Crowds of frail leaves which winds seize off time-chiseled trees into the November breeze
With a crown of reds and oranges, easily seen scattered around fall forests
Soon warm days are lacking, jackets hung on racks, the story of seasons reaching a climax
Cold outside, colors bleak, hands in pockets, crisp air swaying bare branches
February snows disguising the dying ground, a cool blanket of white, ghostly in the night
Spring is around the corner, as people say, returning the rejuvenating warmth of May
Green grass will grow and snow will disappear so people can’t wait for this great season
Yet, the pattern repeats, the crank of time still turns, and we don’t seem to have much concern