Summer boy,

the mud is not yet soil.

Let this prison wait for it will bring forth his brilliant word, and cease the rain.

From stone does he speak,

solid in tone but soft in appearance.

And how night ricocheted him back to us so we can see.

The sun will dry all faults,

and the mud will thus become soil,

firm enough to plant your feet.

Summer boy do not let this soil turn back to mud as the water cascades down,

let it rain upon you as it burns your surface,

but let it not touch the dry soil which you planted it all in.

You will never get it back.

Never until the end.

Than summer resides and you become an autumn child.

Your seeds are scorched and you are scarred,

yet you persist.

The winter bares her teeth at you,

and you hide.

But not for long,

as the night gets lonely again you come out to comfort the one who you call home.

I myself murmur,

your story turning night to day as your tale finds its way to your ears.

Listening,

silent, unaware, but content.

Your undaunted narrative skates by you through the dry leaves.

And you forget all about your miscarriages.

For now at least.

At least until the end.

That is when the winter returns,

fierce and angry at your lack of empathy for her.

You hide away,

sleeping like awakeness had forsaken you with misfortune.

The winter roams,

trying to find you.

But you are a winter youth,

not spry anymore but cunning enough.

Yet you are still stuck in this prison,

with tools to escape right outside.

But your solid tone and soft appearance starts to fade as the snow melts.

And you melt along with it.

Forever melting,

forever and always.

A spring gentleman arises from the mud,

and there you are.

You look at yourself and what you have become,

the night smiles down upon you.

Within seconds spring is gone.

And yet again,

you become

a Summer Boy.

Forever,

until the end.