The softest breeze spirals, twisting the leaves in circles,
Keeping them all suspended, unable to reach the dirt.
Autumn, forever yearning to see the blossoming colors,
And usher in a season, of escape from the sun.
Summer, never ending, the days always scorching.
Ground thirsty for water, from clouds that will never come.
Spring, a distant thought, a sweet memory fading,
Of the ripe earth sprouting, with prosperity for all
Winter, cannot come. Halted by the selfish breeze.
Blankets of snow stuck in heaven, waiting for leaves to fall.
Will they all be echoes in the wind?
It will all be echoes in the end.