Everyone Has A Story Poem by Linda Marie Van Tassell

Spring remembers where she began,
on the burning lips of Glory,
cast from the tongue of God to man
to blossom on earth before me.
Carpets of color bloom and sway.
Striations of petals explode.
Snowdrops inverted hearts display.
Red Emperors rise by the road.

Summer pulses in veins of green,
with golden hair and eyes of blue.
With vintage flair of brown citrine,
the dusts of time are in her shoe.
The hem of her dress gathers dirt,
its frayed edges sweep over stones.
The baked breath of a clay desert
whistles dixie within her bones.

Autumn parades a patchwork quilt,
a plume of leaves pinned in her hair.
The ebb of days and long hours spilt
return a harvest meant to share.
She pulls a thread and verdures fall.
Feathers fly to a warmer clime.
Families gather, one and all,
to give thanks for this fruitful time.

Winter wears a Pashmina shawl
embroidered with nacre of snow.
Crystals hang from the garden wall
as harsh north winds endure and blow.
Her pale lips promise freezing rain.
A fog of cold is in her breath.
Of her days, very few remain.
The next season will bring her death.

I remember spring in my step,
the supple skin of yesterday,
the endless days of summer pep
in the gamay of Beaujolais.
Autumn laments, calling me home,
back to burning lips of Glory.
Winter will end my ancient tome,
but everyone has a story.