Every day, season has its colours.
None devoid.
Every season its light.
Lengthening days, or longer nights,
light still comes. Often the more
cherished for its shortened appearance.
And colours new or faded,
have their own presence.
Enough to draw tears, arouse our memories,
bring disquiet.
What do we do about the changes in hue?
We can only witness. It all happens without us,
though we take our parts on the stage.
Ana Lisa de Jong
Living Tree Poetry
October 2020
Living Tree Poetry 