Peace like spring, when frigid iced-over death melts to calling birds and budding flowers
and thunderstorms and cloudless sunny skies.
When sweater weather and shirtless days at the lake both have a place
and take our breath away in the unexplainable miracle of life springing forth
from what once was a tragic cold.
Peace like fall
when vibrant colors come together in a necessary death
that we've expected just a few weeks too long,
accepting the memories of summer majestically enshrined in the falling leaves
in a timely manifestation of changing seasons.
Anticipation made electric in the crisp air of apple orchards and pumpkin patches.
Peace like winter,
when the matchless stillness of a moonlit snowfall reminds us
that even what some call death is filled with its own energy
surpassing our wildest imaginations.
When the distractions of attractive department store displays only detract
from the magic that's already all around us,
while instead we surround ourselves with batteries and plastic imitations of the good life.
Peace like summer?
But summer is for speedboats and beach days and stargazing and cows grazing and foot races and volleyball tournaments and backyard barbecues.
These are the kinds of things that complement solitary contemplation quite nicely but quietly fall to pieces without at least a little reasonable retreat for time spent in meditation.
Summer is a separate peace, and now is the winter of our discontent.