RELAY:

From heaven´s cupped hands, snow tossed, soft flurry falling,

The cold-icy-grey-clouds, upon pewter sky, lie low sprawling,

Seasons spinning, orbits turn, round & round, all going so fast,

Race is on; time runs out, season´s baton to spring now passed.

Taking her floral scepter, that one of rose-sprigged boughs,

Spring flounces in with pretty flowers & to earth, low bows,

And with tremendous joy, weeping her fresh April tears,

Passing on leafed branch, as she´s done for many years.

The grasping, grilling of gold barb, of sun´s hot & oily baton,

Molten copper leads beast to hide & man to put his hat on,

The old burning, drying, flourishing, warm & melting heat,

It´s time to march on forward & change the season´s beat.

The end of the race is close now, so balmy & almost nigh,

And within the soft & gentle dying, hark the russet sigh,

The bronzed air bids farewell, to the rosy turning shrike,

As the relay baton is handed to winter, in icicled icy spike.