He loved the colors of the swirl of seasons,
The semiotic utterance of youth,
How lassitude gets tangled up in reasons,
And how all our finesse becomes uncouth
In search for just a little bit of truth;
Like pictures in a child’s book we see
The swirl of seasons and mortality.

She asked for loyalty, some faint allegiance,
For love to see the soul and not the form,
And set to seek among the swirl of seasons,
To find some shelter from the coming storm
Where laughter was the rule, the gauge, the norm —
Like stained-glass colors: clear and autumn bright
That herald morning after dismal night.

The met when each was searching for an answer,
An image each had carried in their heart,
A silent singer and a secret dancer,
Who joined, then hoped to never be apart,
As though each ended in the other’s start;
The swirl of seasons, now, in polychrome –
And how the search for love, sometimes, hits home