The tides of the seasons

When the sun shines on your face,
and the sky is blue in wonderment,
can we say,
that there is spring?
Or are we already in fall?

When the leaves fall off the trees,
and the houses look old and crank,
when the branches wiggle in the wind,
and the coats are showered with a cold wet?

Winter comes soon,
and the warm sun of its last warmth,
slowly disappears into the shadow of the night,
dark it gets and unpleasant,
with no sunshine in your face,
but breezes fresh and bold,
running through your nose with watery wit.

You sneeze,
and cough,
and drink nasty juices,
in the hope,
so far as fast and furry,
the spring knocks on your door,
and loud,
with whispering voices,
and crescendo expression,
turns to you,
and looks your in the eye:

"hey, spring is coming,
I can see it,
and smell it,
the crocuses are blossoming,
and the Easter eggs are searched.

Spring is coming,
and the sun is warm."

Finally,
it is spring again.
and the year is waiting for another warmth,
till the darkness of the night lures back in
and dies.