Seasons of Woman
A poem for my mother, my daughter and I

My daughter
is spring. Prone to sunshine and sudden storms. Enthusiastic shoots of growth, both mind and body. A butterfly, flitting between the flowers of her interests and her friends.
I
am creeping into autumn colours burnished, brassy leaves furling. Summer days still catching unawares, as nights draw in early. Craved comfort spiced with change.
My mother
winding through winter, still with gifts to give. Hair frost rimed, old bones crack like ice. Spring still fresh in mind as summer memories fade.
Seasons overlap before they pass and cycle once again. From birth to life to death, rebirth. We are not yet done.






