Hymn with Changing Seasons

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after "The Human Seasons" by John Keats

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Four Seasons swathe the body in sewage lilies,

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          Comb the asphalt out of our fingertips. Winter:

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A strawberry propagates silently, endlessly;

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          So much so that the bees scurry 

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Away, and soon, a handful of dried wasps arrive at our

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          Doorsteps. Come spring, the fruit

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No longer tastes like a mystery. Winter’s snow feels

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          So foreign, so stark. You pick a purple aster

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On your walk and wonder if this flower was ever as dark.

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          & the body, frail, holds summer’s hand

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As its mother on her deathbed, praying to the

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          Autumn moon to return to a past life.

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Orange leaves sweep by in a foxtrot and

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          Already winter again, you pick lavender,

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Dice strawberries into a blue bowl. Snow settles and

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          Melts; water dribbles down your boots as you kick,

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Already forgotten. Like your tongue, bewildered by

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          The red flesh of the carmine berry.

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