As Four Seasons
The world turns and offers to the bulk of humanity four seasons. Our calendars, with their rich photographic plates of snowclad barns and luxurious summer evenings, reflect the spinning axis upon which we are held in place by gravity's pull. And we endure. There is ice to contend with, along with the insatiable allure of crocuses popping and cicadas signing of the end of another summer, and we watch the leaves swallowing us in gold and flaming red and think to ourselves, "another year has almost passed." We bring out the Perry Como Christmas CD and steady ourselves for another New Year.
Even the ancients counted by seasons. The signs are everywhere. And if there is a human being anywhere who has not sickened on snow and longed for a little green grass, the cave drawings don't reflect it. The four seasons are as natural as two arms and two legs. It's a human construct, but one of the few that make sense.
Of course, we in the north begin a new year in deep hibernation, which is a plus, as with the first hint of spring we get to begin a new year with plenty of track ahead of us. We feel that we are on to something big when the world turns and warms our faces and tells us that all that is ahead shall be sunshine and fresh peaches.
Naturally, we want to make the most of the four seasons, which is why we listen to 50's platters. Somebody out there in the wider world is singing because it is spring (somewhere) and their voices are very high and trilling with expectancy. OOOOEEEEOOOO! Four part harmony.
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