Seasons

The seasons pant by

worn out

passing the baton onto the next 

The seasons drip with the perspiration of hard work

they dry up already barren land

they lengthen suffocating days

and shorten dreary suns

The seasons run a race of four legs

a race without an end

a race that goes the same pace each time round

a race that really isn't a race at all

The seasons taste of a pie cut in fourths

of a fruitful bounty

of a lush surprise

of a consistent world.