by
Linda Bergkvist During spring, she is but seeds in the ground. A couple of rosebuds slowly appearing on thorny branches. Painfully bursting from the deep bowels of the earth; climbing quietly, slowly, out of the dust and dirt.
During summer... she spreads her wings but is locked to the ground. Her eyes are closed but her beauty is rich and full - she sways gently in the summer breeze. She hums along with the rest of the world around her - glorious in the rich warmth of summer.
During autumn... she is finally released. Like the leaves tumbling from the trees - she is set free. For a few wonderful weeks, she dances with the winds; she twirls and whirls across the sand-coloured fields and her voice can be heard whispering through the red-tinted forests. She is -alive- during autumn. But she, alike the leaves that dart and dance around her, will eventually tumble to the ground and remain still... slowly rotting away as nature around her does.
During winter, she freezes; she becomes encapsuled like the rest of the nature around her. Frozen as her limbs and wings were rotting and moulding with the leaves. She is held still and quiet like that famous princess in her glass casket. Not alive, and yet never fully dead, because nature never fades... ...
and then spring comes, again, and the cycle is repeated... again, and again, as the years whisper by."
