I am the fall leaf that spins on the branch. 

The autumn flower bowing to winter's gaze.

I am the last bird to chase the fleet foot sun.

The final cut of skeptical, loon grass. 

You are the silent shriek of winter's gasp,

The tease of time's cryptic temper. 

You are the promise of menagerie green. 

The progenitor of silver scent melts.

We are the bridge of blended suns rising. 

The continuance made it possible.

We are wakers and sleepers of the in-between.

The silent clip of the small hand turning. 

Welcome to the newborn summer.