Solitude Season

Summer is solitude
season, sweating the
swears out so that vanilla's
language art can lick the 
edge off the central sun.

Spring is solitude
season, swinging
off swings to
find footing in 
woods chipped
from a couple chocks
of not-yet melted ice.

Winter is solitude 
season, whetted 
whisp reason flurried
into snow feet, booted
up to the top of another
shivering, silent walk.

Autumn is solitude
season, aught in 
deciduous guests'
tiny deaths left
below and with
a little breeze,
behind.