The Seasons

Summer:

The smile in her eyes sparkles brighter than the sunlight glinting off the sea.

She sticks her toes into the warm sand, curling as she buries her face into your side.

Her laughter resounds with each curl of the white-frothed waves.

Her fingers strum the strings of the ukulele, strong, reassured. 

Beautiful.

Spring:

Flowers embellish her hair like jewels half-buried in rich earth.

She skips down the path, her skirts billowing, and she turns back just to throw you a smile; you, and only you.

The tangles in her ebony hair remain tangled in the breeze, curling along the curve of her lips.

Windows down, she pokes her head into the wind, carefree, innocent. 

Free.

Autumn:

The leaves start melding into one another, as do the indescribable feelings swirling within her heart.

Her fingers are entwined with the withering phone cord, waiting for your voice to speak up beside her ear.

Her hair has become a beautiful mess, mirrored by the confusion in her clouded eyes.

Lukewarm, the air has become, she invites them, shivers, sweat. 

Pain.

Winter:

The sweater, gray as the skies, hangs loose on her willowy frame.

Her teeth are chattering, yet she cannot stop them from uttering your name; each syllable over and over again.

Those dainty feet no longer dance with the crystalline snowflakes, and her tinkling chimes have ceased.

Her fingers are motionless in the chill, like her heart, shadowed, cold.

Numb.

Epilogue:

Thereafter, time stands still, the clock hands frozen, coated with frost.

Seasons have faded, and her song is a song that will sing no more.

p.s. Apologies if this may seem a little too gray to taste, but I wrote this purely for artistic expression, to play around with words across a theme. When inspiration strikes, I am not one to deny its rights.

Love,             

eunice.