Idle thought is how it all begins,
blessing of days and the season's sins;
thoughts are like insects transfixed by pins.
The truth is reduced to words on skins
painted and stretched upon wooden frames;
intent betrayed by what purpose claims.
Everyone points, but still no one blames.
What ends in ashes begins in flames.
Summer thoughts borne by a knave in spring
never can tell what the fall will bring;
a knight in winter will always sing
of the virtue of a summer fling.
Seasons pass and we can not pretend,
or hope that the summer can extend
past the days the season will intend;
Summer thoughts die with the season's end.
What began with a flame, now but dust;
seasons must turn and the world is just
as it ought to be and as it must.
Seasons for life, birth, death, and for lust.
Summer thoughts echo in winter's night,
the ghost of a knave become a knight;
a lifetime of memories delight.
Spring is a vigil kept by that light.
