Seasons Quartet

By Rihannon McCutcheon

 

Seasons Quartet is a collection about appreciation that focuses on the human experience of climate change. Often, we fail to show conservation as a thing people should care about, so these poems seek to correct that. They’re to show the things we appreciate so that we’re motivated to protect them. Be that a thriving riparian area, leaves, snow, or high mountain meadows.

 

The Brook

Babbling, crystal, blue, and cool

all words to describe your waters,

A sanctuary to all who find you—

The trees who sup from deep beneath,

horsetails who grow in the shallows,

stones who tumble onto their next stop,

the deer who drink, the trout who waggle,

all of them friends who partake

But lastly, me, who swims and paddles drenched through in your babble

No other way would I spend a scorching day

To the brook, I’m on my way

 

Leaf Litter

The wonders of leaf litter are not well-known

That when they decompose, the grass will grow

They keep the ground cozy where bugs call home

and of course, they’re also food, 

but well,

the smell is what I like the most.

Like a good cheese, musty and sweet

I beg to the earth to give me that treat

but of course without leaves,

there’d be no smells for me

nor food or homes for bugs

the grass would not swell

they’d crumple unwell

So please leave the leaves where they are

For the smells, the bugs, and the grass in your yard

 

Cold Blankets

Long ago, I remember

A blizzard that blanketed November

with snow both harsh and beautiful.

There are so many types of snow

the sticky stuff that grins when you pick it up

some snow hardens to save it’s softer brothers

but the snow that’s best is falling.

It dusts the cheeks and coats eyelashes

it’s a gentle touch like no other

it brings cold to appreciate warmth

and after hours, when you’re frigid

go inside, have warm hot chocolate

and remember the snow while it lasts.

Because someday when you’re old and grown

There may be no snow by your home

and cold blankets could be a thing of the past

 

Wildflower

High above the fog where petals grow

with trees sparse, where elk roam

There is a meadow wide and sweet

with many flowers, who long to greet

the many feet who travel along

never listening to their lovely song

nor stop to dance or laugh or play

None! Throughout the whole of day

At least until I came along

and sang to them a happy song

So here I sang above the clouds

with flowers dancing in musical shroud