The Mind Has Its Seasons

The mind has its seasons.
It has its summer, winter, autumn, spring
Its seasons of searching and remembering
Its seasons of waxing and waning, its seasons of slumbering.

The mind has its seasons.
It has its pulses, rhythms, cycles, turns,
The hour that freezes and the hour that burns.

The mind has its seasons
And its seasons do not give way
Until the appointed term, the rightful day.

The mind has its nights and days
It hast its mornings, lit by the sun's bright rays.
It has its midnights under the pale moon's gaze.

The mind has its times of quest
When it seeks the furthest, highest, best,
The hour when we rush with joy to the hardest test.

The mind has its weariness
When all it seeks is silence, loneliness,
Darkness, stillness, caverns fathomless.

The mind has its eras, too;
Its revolutions, forging itself anew;
Basking in daybreak and bathing in morning dew;

It has its revivals, seeking out older ways,
Kindling again the embers of earlier days
Praising the light primeval with twice-born praise.

The mind has its seasons, strange and mysterious.
The mind has its long descents to the dark abyss.
The mind has its mountaintop moments of indescribable bliss.

The mind has its seasons...what season is it now?
Seek not the things that the season will not allow.
The season will change, though you know not when or how.