Land of 4 Seasons
My home is in the land of 4 seasons.
Indeed, Vivaldi dreamed of it when he wrote his symphonic masterpiece.
The seasons cross over the land and feed my consciousness.
Inspiration is but a rainfall away; imagination is but a snowflake in the snowstorm.
From out of the northern wood, my heart thrives and my mind awakens.
The land is a conduit and my life moves through the seasons; thereafter, seeds planted until fruit grows in the dirt of my soul.
By my fruits, my soul is cultivated.
My fruits are my work, my love, my life.
In the land of 4 seasons, I live in the realm of the creator. My inspiration pours out of me and I pass my pen over the clean paper until my conviction is satisfied.
The land of 4 seasons is the land of my father and mother—it is the land of my youth—the home of my heart.
Wherever time moves me, in the northern wind is where I am most complete. Each season lifts my spirit, and when the gale storms explode across the lake, I moor my ship.
It is in the seasonal clouds where the creator dwells.
Across the land of 4 seasons, it is winter—long cold. Under the harsh snow, my garden sleeps.
Soon, below the spring sunlight, the seed will live again; the bud will give birth to the lace leaf and the cherry blossom. Kissed by the springtime breeze, the maple and the weeping cherry will touch once more in the garden.
In the transformation of the seasons, as the garden’s breath passes over the dust of my skin, my heart will be happy.
