​The cold wind is blowing, stripping the heat from the glass, whistling through the gaps in the stone. The clouds are rolling in— not drifting, but marching, an iron wall closing the distance. ​People are rushing, shadows darting between the shops, the frantic rattle of plywood and locks, preparing for the storm that is approaching. No one looks up. ​The sky is grey. The air is cold. It settles in the bone. It waits for the sky to break.

​Flowers and roses are blooming, In ribbons of crimson and gold, While over the hills and the meadows, The secrets of summer unfold. ​Birds are chirping, bees are buzzing, A symphony tuned to the sun, The spirit of winter is fading, And the dance of the garden’s begun. ​The grass is a carpet of emerald, Still damp with the mist of the dawn, While shadows play tag in the orchard And stretch 'cross the length of the lawn. ​The breeze is a whisper of velvet, It carries the scent of the pine, As nature rewrites every color And teaches the world how to shine. ​Each petal is drinking the dewdrop, Each wing is a blur in the light, A world that was sleeping in silence Is waking up vivid and bright.