What are the seasons to me? They come and go so quickly now that they are more like the nuance of speech in a story my beloved tells.

He tells the story over and over and I love hearing it and joining in the telling at key points.

Like when Spring came and the wind was so fierce we had to hold onto the street lamps to keep from blowing away. We’ll all chime in at “Spring.”

Then he talks about summer and we chant “Summer.”

If he were to stop telling the stories there would be no fruit, no leaves to fall, no bare branches to catch the snow and transform it into blossoms.

So what season is this, my love?

I can see summer all year long or freeze in August. There is a hum that connects the season’s that seems more noticeable to me now than the changes themselves.

I’m drawn to the center, to the teller.

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