I felt caressed of season,
when stepped upon cement
of ordinary country porch.

For, in the repose of morn
my lips were kiss adorned.

Sweet, on lips with color
red, orange and gold.
Brown soft in hue,
kissed with delicate
autumnal dew.

The first taste of kiss
of fall, of bliss.
Before the blaze
of color show,
leading to
the winter's snow.

Where upon this same
step of cement,
kissed again
with cold lament,
will be the rose
who weathers thus
the changing
that the season does.
If always with a kiss upon
the seasons change
and then move on.

WhiteRose