Come with Me.

I was looking up a word in my Merriam-Webster Dictionary this morning and stumbled across this poem that I believe my Mother wrote. No date or title.

Come with me to spring...
the young willow is tender and transparent... 
dropping it's branches gently to the earth.
Shade is a pattern and lawns are green and moist rain is soft...
with uplifted face, a blessing is sprinkled.
Life is young and life is innocent, easily crushed and easily adored.


Come with me over the fields...
into the sun. Life is lazy and slow,
sitting in the quiet meadow, with the clouds overhead...
full and misty, sometimes billowing and white as chalk.
Birds swing wide in the watery blue, 
calling to their small one's in snug little nests along the fence posts.
The good smell of gay lying on the ground, dry and warm.


Come with me when night galls quickly and dawn brings a light frost on the pane...
leaves are brilliant and clashing, floating, swirling, swiftly to the ground.
Faint odor of burning leaves fill the air, bringing memories.
Autumn is sad with dying life, forgetful of the present,
jealous of the past and fearful of the future.


Come with me and see the snow as it has never been.
The wind sweeps white wisps of fine flakes into the  lowered face.
The breath is fast and clod and cheeks are warm and tingling.
Life is fleeting, flying, dying.
The sky lays over the earth and shuts out the deep blue of space.
It is quiet, very quiet.
Even the wind tiptoes across the drifts,
and is muffled in the downy blanket.

Come with me, come with me.