Seasons in the Flint Hills

 Crisp and black with cold, dry ash,
You cover yourselves with green,
Awakened to life by rain and sun,
You thrive in the breezes of spring.

Days grow long, the south wind blows;
Your green now changes, too—
First more vibrant, then more soft,
And then to a golden hue.

A gentler sun ripens your gold
To copper and rich red rust;
Heat gives way to autumn frost
And mist that quells the dust.

Day by day your frost grows thicker,
Gives way to sleet and snow;
Grasses lie beneath the ice,
A-shine in the moon’s pale glow.

© 2019 Michelle Lindsey