Luminous [A poetry collection] ~ Canvas of Words

~ c h a n g e ~ [requested]

This poem was requested by Spiritsx.

~~~~~~~~~~

Every three months,
there comes a time,
where Mother Earth gathers her brushes
and sits down in front of her work of art,

the one that we call our world.

Softly humming a song to herself,
she takes the first brush into her hands
and admires what she had created before:

A beautiful picture,
a peaceful landscape,
flowers and trees,
hills and a lake,
snowdrops covering every inch
of the ground, inhabited by worms.

She hums and thinks,
"What a lovely place,"
but it's a nameless place,
and so she says:

"A pretty, refreshing thing like this
needs a happy name,

so I'll call it Spring."

But something just doesn't seem to be right,
a special spark is missing.

And so she begins
to change what was,
a sun now lights up the picture.
The sky becomes blue,
the trees even greener,
children dance in the distance.

The tip of the brush
moves away from the canvas,
as Mother Earth leans back and declares:

"This is much better, so warm and inviting,
it needs a lively name,

so I'll call it Summer."

But something still doesn't seem to be right,
it isn't perfect yet.

And so she begins
to change what was,
and hides the sun behind clouds.
The tree's leaves become red,
the air becomes foggy,
the children now fly kites.

And once again,
the brush works wonders,
and Mother Earth pulls away and whispers:

"Beautiful, so mysterious and calming,
this piece needs a cozy name,

so I'll call it Fall."

But still, something bothers her eyes,
there still is work to be done.

And so she begins
to change what was,
and adorns the fog with snowflakes.
The trees become dry,
the ground becomes white,
the children are wearing scarfs.

And another time,
she smiles with pride,
as Mother Earth takes it in and says:

"This one, now, it appeals to me,
I need a name for this pure place,

so I'll call it Winter."

Mother Earth is content
with all that she's made,
and puts her brushes aside again.

But after a while
of admiring her work,
a frown appears on her face.

"It's beautiful,
but now I'm bored
of seeing white all the time.

I think I might change it,
I really liked Spring,
maybe I'll go back there,
just for a while."

And so she begins
to change what was,
and paints the snow away again.
Till the grass is green,
the flowers bloom,
and the children play in the distance.

That's when she blinks
and eventually sees:
There lies something special in each of her pictures.

Why keep only one?
It's the change that matters,

the change that creates the magic she longs for.