Naked and skeletal, the trees first feel it coming. They dance and they stretch, with the wind through their arms, waking from their long, long, frosty slumber. And it comes, as a child, jovial, warm, bringing the scent of lilac and dew, touching all with a soft and curious hand. All comes alive with that gentle touch; a soothing wind breathing life into the dead and the cold. The rivers break open their crust, pouring out their torrents to quench the thirst of the land, while the trees bear their flowers; red, violet, and blue. And all the Earth is adorned in green, drenched with a golden light, singing merrily, "To life. To life."
Spring is the hour of the young maiden. She walks lightly through the garden, a long white dress to trail behind her, an embodiment of the youthful season. The wind tickles her cheeks and dances with her hair, the glorious sun gleans upon her back as she spins and spins, arms stretched wide and singing.
He watches from afar, full of youth and valour, intoxicated by the air. The spring nymph dances gracefully, blissfully, beautiful. Heart beating, rhythmically, pulsing, throbbing, breathing so very heavy; he longs to dance too.
From the green earth he plucks a flower for her hair, and as he gently places it, sees her coy smile. Lightly, sheepishly, she kisses his cheek, and takes his hand tenderly to lead him dancing through the trees.
But as the first act wanes, spring will make a final bow, lighting the way charmingly for the next. Always summer will follow, powerful, penetrating, hot. The air grows stiff, humid, and heavy. The trees strain against stagnation under the glaring, fiery sun. Passion is thick in the air, noxious and lovely, flooding the earth, while all below stand drowning, drowning, drowning.
The young maiden sits in the arms of her lover; he kisses her neck, so gentle, so tender. Touching her lightly, hinting desire; one fair hand brushes a face, no longer so smooth, but not yet so rough and hardened. Green eyes bore so adoringly into blue, promising always to love, to love.
Like the child in the spring, a new visitor will arrive, as the summer begins to recede into sleep. Charming at first this newcomer seems, yet he is not long able to hide his jagged, gnashing teeth.
Cruel winds begin to howl, shaking the trees, biting their flesh. Gnawing, marring, howling, mauling. They weep ere long. Golden tears, drops the hue of blood, fall down, down, so elegantly, so calmly, to shroud all the earth in ignorant mourning.
The maiden stands weeping, a shawl wrapped tightly about her shoulders. She weeps for the trees, for life, and for love. Alone. She stands alone, wretched, forgotten, confused. Oh, sweet confusion. Oblivion. To be forgotten. To forget. If only she could take his advice, and just run away.
Her tears too are red, running without pause from her heart to her eyes. "I loved you once," she whispers. "Once."
She places her head on the shoulder of her friend, her once friend, the only one who will listen and console. She strokes the rough bark, gently, soothingly, and the pair weeps silently. "Fear not, my dear," the maiden says softly. "The winter is coming. It is nearly time, and we will finally sleep, we'll sleep."