Each segment of the year makes painted scenes,
Creating sonnets. Thin and icy greens,
Translucent, stuck in frigid air
Hold promises, stuck in a frozen stare,
And every edge that melts slips to transcend
The present, speaks in warming tones to send
Predictions of a lush and creeping green
That even now begins in rows, unseen,
Presaging jeweled summer. Colors burst,
Till I forget that even now they’re cursed,
Diminished by the narrowness of fall
And caught by frost, until the roundelay
Of scenes begins again — whirls seeds away.
— From the September 2, 2013 issue of National Review.