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is a cycle of death. January is gray like a sexton by the grave, February bears its bier, March howls and raves with grief, April weeps, and May provides its fairest flowers to follow.

January gray is here, like a sexton by her grave; February bears the bier, march with grief doth howl and rave, and April weeps -- but, O ye hours! Follow with May's fairest flowers.

 bleeds into each other like a watercolor painting.

If the seasons bleed into each other like a watercolor painting, it means not enough fish and berries to last the winter, not enough wood chopped for the stove, not enough meat in the freezer. One year winter came so fast and so hard, the leaves on the birch trees didn't even have time to turn yellow and fall off; they froze solid green on the branches. They clung there for months on skinny skeleton arms, the color so blindingly wrong it was creepy. Every year it's a race between the seasons, and that year fall lost.

is authentic; there is no mistake about them, they are what a symphony ought to be: four perfect movements in intimate harmony with one another.

The seasons . . . are authentic; there is no mistake about them, they are what a symphony ought to be: four perfect movements in intimate harmony with one another.

seasons, n.Memes

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