The wind begins to whisper low,
A secret that the seasons know—
Summer slips on golden sand,
But autumn's brush is close at hand.

The trees exchange their emerald gowns
For crimson cloaks and amber crowns,
A fleeting fire that lights the wood,
A blaze that won't be understood.

Then comes the frost, a crystal tide,
To etch its lace on window's side;
Winter's breath, so cold and clear,
Draws its veil across the year.

Yet in the heart of frozen ground,
A quiet promise can be found:
That spring will stir in roots below,
And thaw the fields beneath the snow.

The earth awakens, green unfurls,
Life returns in buds and curls,
The rivers swell, the blossoms swell,
And birdsong weaves its timeless spell.

So seasons spin their endless thread,
A tapestry where time is spread;
For all that ends must start anew,
The circle turns—an ever-changing view.