Attending to Vivaldi’s soaring strains
Gives rise to words and thoughts inspired
While drifting on a gentle bed of dreams
That must be grasped to manifest the moment,
Make clear the muddle that infests our lives.
Vivaldi. What sparked the genius
To bring forth the glory of the seasons
That are so dimmed in never ending repetition?
How is it that we be so inured
To the miracles that we are blessed with,
The seasons not the least among them?
Spring. The harbinger of life
When all that lay dormant mimicking death
Stirs to new-born life.
Summer. The fecund growth,
The promise of life’s continuance
And generations to come.
Fall. The great dying off
A time to rest for the coming trial.
As all things must do
And return to the source of all things.
Winter’s silence in a blanket
Sheltering the nascent dormant seed
With soft white comforters of snow
Protection from the ravages ice and wind.s
Vivaldi, the master who took these simple truths
And fashioned their grand procession
Into a thing of exquisite beauty.
He gave to us The Seasons.