Seasons Are Like Our Children

Larry Moffitt
November 7, 2009

Seasons are like children in a large family. Each one is so different from the others, it is hard to imagine them coming from the same two finite parents.

Spring is the baby of the family, so easy to love, and is given license to be hot-tempered because its eyes are so big and its smile does such a number on your defenses.

Autumn too is nice to be around, talented and complex. Autumn is where life and death meet, where art and intellect make another attempt to occupy the same time and space. It speaks its mind and you never know what Autumn is going to say. There is a fragile intensity and a brilliance there; sometimes Autumn dies young. Nobody forgets Autumn.

Summer is a blue-eyed blonde. Being a born romantic, Summer can be the best child or the most troublesome. Seems like never in between.

Winter is easy to discount and put to one side. Winter seems sullen but that’s because what Winter offers is deep and hard to get to. Everyone hopes Winter will latch onto a path and destiny that won’t wreck the world. But there is a hero buried inside Winter that will emerge when the world needs it. Winter can melt your heart faster and more thoroughly than any of the others because the thoughtfulness is so unexpected, the utter selflessness so profound.