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As Spring, love is conceived, a fertile seed
in silence grows ‘til it burgeons brand new
with bloom that explodes to eagerly be
nourished by sweet lust – ardor’s morning dew.
As Summer, love flourishes, rampant with dreams
of stamen and pistil imagery bold,
birds and bees and innocent youthful schemes,
never a thought for what the future holds.
As Fall, love matures, still vibrant though milder,
artful pursuits - tastes for more steadfast ways
begin to supplant most leanings wilder.
Mellowness pervades those abridging days.
As Winter, love wanes, dormant - not by age,
since desire is seldom quelled by mere years,
but oft’ by circumstance and pent-up rage;
rendered impotent and full of cold tears.
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