Seasonless

Hushed, the rain rinses the summer away.
And it is not autumn.
Are those leaves falling,
borne off upon the wind?

The sun lingers
with you less and less.
But it does not die.

It dies upon the face,
yet in you it is still alive.

And it kindles the yellow hope
that beyond the horizon
spring is on its way.

Winter is searching for a place,
searching for a time, a colour…