The Soul is a gold leaf
that dances and crumbles away
as it falls from a tree
on a grey November day.

The Soul is a snowflake
that shines in the white hugeness
under the cold Winter sun
of a magnificent Winter.

The Soul is a bird
that flies in the sky
and can reach for the stars
without waiting for the Night.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

Trees weigh words and light,
and colors drown in the river.
Summer has lost its memory
but gardens remember Spring.

How strange! It seems to me
I am one thousand years old
and I feel like playing again
hide-and-seek with Fall.

I love those ember days
in the breath of the sun.
My soul was born in September:
today is forever.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

Illustration: Bridge at Montfoucault (Camille Pissaro, 1874)

Soon a chill will come,
and soon true gold will abound.
Autumn, today is your birthday
and a bird is singing!

But soon the leaves,
falling aimlessly,
shall stop dreaming.
Autumn, I’m already grieving.

There is a time
when colours hide
a time when we leave and rise.
Autum, I’ll miss you!

© Frédéric Georges Martin

If I had only one year left to live
I would thank Spring
for bluebells woods and rainbows,
seen and unseen.

I would tell Summer
it means the world to me.
In Fall, I would plant a tree
under the silent stars.

Leaf on the wind,
I would ask Winter
to give me for Christmas
only one Night more,

and like a child
enthralled by the Lights
I would write in the snow
love letters with many forevers.

© Frédéric Georges Martin