• As days turn to weeks,
    And weeks turn to months,
    Before we know it, whole seasons pass.
    And we seldom take the time
    to listen to the melodic sounds
    that surround us.

    As the autumn winds blow,
    the leaves dance through the air.
    A ballet of dancers in orange
    yellow
    and red.
    Tired branches crash together
    like brass cymbals
    in a deciduous symphony of trees.

    As autumn turns to winter,
    the leaves are blanketed
    by radiant white, as the snow falls,
    swirling down from the heavens,
    In rhythm with the whistle
    of the winter wind.

    In the spring, the flowers awaken,
    after a long winter's rest.
    They sway to the beat of the rain,
    conducting the singing of the birds,
    much like a metrinome.
    Tap.
    Tap.
    Tap.

    As the summer sun emerges
    from the rainclouds of spring,
    the children do likewise.
    They trill with delight
    in rhythm with the dancing of their bare feet
    as they indent the earth
    with happy footprints.

    These footprints remain forever,
    like the long-lasting effect of a joyful song.
    Through the seasons,
    Our mother's song plays on.
    We can't always hear it,
    but it's always there.
    Like the thump-thump-thumping
    of your heart.