Seasons by Adam Smith

I

Spring was still the first of things.

Timid bulbs grew shyly on the trees

stirring in the iron earth.

And birds returned to their branches:

redbelly robin flew first to scratch the soil.

The sun shone sallow in limpid air,

though night watch hours were over.

Yellow daybreak grew bright and bold,

and daffodils adorned the country passing,

self-indulgent in these growing times.

And to grow, to be green, and to bloom

was always the way of things.

April rain brought resurrection,

and May the happy dancing days when

sunlight shone through greenwood leaves.

II

Summer was life in simple splendor,

holding you close in heavy heat.

And the noble corn grew straight and tall

as tomatoes ripened on the vine

fat and red in the fullness of things.

The forest groves were dark and cool,

and full of midsummer mystery

so we understood our mothers’ tales

of fairies and dryads and magic on air:

there’s shape to the world without us.

The world turned slowly in those days

and we were glad for greatness then:

content that truth be truth after all,

we embraced the unknown, clung to faith,

and gloried in our childlike ignorance.

III

In harvest time the air fell crisp

as red and yellow apples from boughs

whose leaves were bright with fading fire.

And we were full of fire, too:

embers glowing in our young eyes.

Then the first frost came; the grass crunched

underfoot and the sky was full

of flocks flying to southern shores.

The trees all lost their summer leaves

and settled down to slumber.

We lost in us our fire’s heat

when we formulated the heart of man.

Because we were afraid of night,

we lit new fires to light the road,

and now lie down to torment.

IV

To sleep, to slumber, and to dream

all through these everwinter nights

is the practice of all living things

but us and the evergreens, shivering in snow.

We cling to Christmas hope, and live.

Our Yule logs burn and then grow cold

and Christmas is only once a year.

We wonder if our sleep is

hibernation in the heart of the hills or

something new – something strange.

The skeletal trees grasp the winter sky

that is gray as the cold barrow hills.

Our days are brief and calculating;

but in the morning, snow has fallen

to say “Behold, I make all things new.”

Freshman Adam Smith comes from Annapolis, Maryland. When not performing his duties as the father of modern economics, he likes to listen to folk and classical music, walk in whatever woods he can find, and read the collected works of Robert Frost. His favorite poet, however, has got to be Wendell Berry.