It is written that “Love never dies” in the High Church of our feelings;
There, aspirations are eternal and proof beyond mere reason.
Of our common day regrets and dreams we require no special pleading
And, as with all things natural, we come to see that love hath a season. 

In our mortal heart it becomes a remembered Spring,
A shining thought amidst a blurred and sheltered past;
Embraced as some sweet, gentle and yet unreal thing
We leave unmourned as that which was not meant to last. 

And Summer does no justice though filled with heat, intemperate joy and fire;
The rising tumult, the hurried kiss, the unbridled rush that finds all things late
Fades as hot and quick as it came, the demanding blush of desire
An afterthought of an afterglow that justifies circumstance as fate. 

Then gentle Autumn comes and perhaps promises a certain peace,
A place and time of comfort that surely has the strength to reign,
Eternal.  Much like old and familiar friendship, conflicts fade, seem to cease
But the brilliant hues mellow and the fallen leaves, like fallen days, have a
		certain pain 

That, in the end, renders a Winter’s tale as best to tell
Of the near barren remains of life’s unsure steps in time’s ice clad rain.
And we find love lives mostly dormant, hidden and tightly held
In sleep, unencumbered by memory, yet dreaming that an eternal Spring will
		return again.