Strands of the Season

Seasons change, just like his hair.

While his chestnut strands remain,

The colors of the seasons join him.

The icy cold of winter freezes the ends to a white;

White as naturalite crystals,

And the soft fur of an arctic seal.

White as a graceful swan’s feathers,

And as white as his undershirt.

The upcoming warmth of spring destroys the ice,

And the sun transforms the white to a golden yellow;

Golden yellow like a field of grain,

And wheat in the sunlight.

Golden yellow like a pencil,

And sparkles in a jar.

The summer brought days at the beach,

Where the water transformed his locks to black;

Black like his favorite shoes, and my favorite sweatshirt.

Blacker than the night’s shadows,

And the ink pouring from my pen.

We end with the autumn,

My favorite of the four,

Where evidence of playing in the leaves shows clearly;

I see orange,

Orange as a school of goldfish,

And as the bill of a penguin.

Orange like a bonfire,

And orange as a powerful tiger.

The seasons change, and so does his hair.

But beneath all that change,

His usual brown remains the same,

And always returns at the end of the day.

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