The Four Seasons.

The start,
The end,
The poets friend,
The writers song,
All day long,
As darkness does fall,
Upon us all,
We laugh and smile,
This whole odd while,
And yet besides,
The frost resides,
Hidden in waiting,
Strangely anticipating,
It knows yet it is,
It hides us in it,
We live in all four,
And shall forevermore.

In springtime when the birds do sing,
Celebrate the love of queen and king,
But also share the joy of heart,
Shared by all who've yet to depart,
And so the song is happy and merry,
While creatures of all sorts, some hairy,
Do meet and greet and prance and play,
To while away the springtime day.
The season where blossom of all colours - though I mainly see pink - grows.

In summer when the sun is hot,
All craves water such a lot,
All other thought has passed their mind,
But something to quench the thirst they must find,
Or a place to slumber free from the sun,
To enjoy the lovely summer fun,
A water fight held in the shade,
Ice creams eaten once a truce is made.
All these things we have to say,
To play away a summers day.
The season where the leaves are a pure green.

In autumn it begins to show,
The coldness it begins to grow,
The forest turns to shades of red,
The trees appearing slightly dead,
Creatures hiding in their homes,
The bears, the birds, the nasty drones,
All fleeing from the coming season,
Yet fearing this one without reason,
For autumn is a time for cheer,
The world looks best this time of year.
The beauty of this place today,
Watch the world go by on an autumn day.
The season where the leaves fall, and adorn the floor in patterns of red, yellow and orange.

The harshest season comes next,
And yet it could still be the best,
For though it's cold and all the rest,
I have a love for pure white snow,
That dances so, and makes my love seem to grow,
In which we can fight,
And play and delight,
For when it might seem at its worst,
This world always has a surprise for us,
Just waiting up its sleeve.
Warming by the fire,
On a day of wintery fun, that contains all we do desire.
The season where the leaves die, but are covered by a blanket of snow.

So if I had to choose the best,
The season which would beat the rest,
I am uncertain which I'd choose,
For none of them do I wish to lose,
Is it right to have a winner,
Or should we remain with none as the sinner,
For surely to choose one over another,
We say that we care nothing for the weather,
For after all it does depend,
On which days it does decide to rain.
At least where I live, anyway.

God knows why I wrote that, but still. The first paragraph seemed a bit random compared to the rest of it in my eyes, but that might just be me.