Seasons

I like the change of seasons,
search for the first leaf bud,
the first blossom, fire tree,
snow fall.

I watch for the ground to cool,
the cracks to close
to silence the crickets. I count them
the seasons, each as they pass
and wonder, does my body shed
seasons like the land?

Do I wear rain on my lips
flowers as eyes, fall in my hair?

Is my hearing cold, deathly silent
as it is in snow with only the wind
ringing the ears and numbing the nose.

They wait for roses
and I wait for the dawn of storms
that precedes the turn of seasons.