Winds of Seasons

MTheodern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem

The winds that pass never return.

The wind of wilt-washed spring departs and, weak,

Goes dying into summer.  Grass and leaves

And blooms give in to heat as rainstorms sneak

Up slowly.  Then their wind as blusters heaves

Away the petaled breath of June and May.

The wind of sweat’s July and August licks

With slobber.  Steams on legs and arms betray

The whispers of the spring, and pets bring ticks

Inside our ruined rooms that suffocate.

The winds of autumn bring relief and thrill,

But even these are touched with winter’s hate.

The threatened blizzards whisper, “Winds shout, shrill.”

  Wild winter winds are worst.  They yank at coat

    And scarf and bring on frostbite throat.

© Phillip Whidden 

The nearly laughably anodyne illustration above the first line of the sonnet was generated by the woefully inadequate AI generator of Microsoft’s Bing.  Note that in it there are not four seasons but there is one surrealistically chopped of pair of wings hanging near the bottom.  It is my experience that this AI image generator is hilariously bad.