Seasons
December 9, 2020
Oh, for time is a fickle thing,
Everlasting and ever-changing.
The morning dew woken early by a summer breeze
and the flowers bloom.
They sit upon a hill, basking in the glow of the midday sun,
breathing in the sobs of a quiet winter.
Shadows soon engulf the light on the windowsill
as clouds roll over the spring sky;
Into darkness,
we fall.
A blanket of snow covers the land,
the bitter air smelling of betrayal.
Like leaves falling in the park and rain on a windowpane,
both beautiful and tragic,
and alluring to the human eye.
Change comes slow,
like a blur,
and the earth is restored to its natural state.
The seasons and direction of wind are the same,
they end where they start
and begin where they finish.

Molly is a sophomore and it's her first year working for The Ridge Review; she's one of our more passionate and creative writers. She enjoys playing volleyball, reading, and hanging out with...
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