On the Brink

Spring.
       On the Brink of summertime,
As told by the growing weight of the warmth,
The sun rays beating stronger day by day,
As told by the buds on the tips of branches,
Unfurling into floating foliage, filling the sky;
It is like a story.
It is the beginning moment in which
The hero sets off to find adventure,
With prospects bright and every confidence on his side.
Summer.
           On the Brink of the fall;
The wind carries the scent of smoke and settling spirit,
The crispness of the air promises a chill
Which has not yet arrived.
Still-green leaves drift to the ground as if to say,
"Just wait."
It is the moment of realization,
When the hero notices that all is not quite right,
And he finds purpose to his quest,
Beginning now his race to find the answer,
Before the last leaf drops and it is too late.
Autumn.
          On the Brink of winter,
Cool nights turn cold,
Stripped limbs shake off the remaining stragglers,
One by one; soon there will be none left.
The winds bears a biting edge,
Carrying mutters of snow and ice and sleep.
It is that moment of the tale,
When all seems dark and only growing darker,
With no escape and no retreat.
The hero must face the knowledge
That his quest is coming to its end,
And finding him unready.
Winter.
         On the Brink of spring.
Days beginning to brighten sooner, lighten longer.
The frigid temperatures softening their edges,
And from somewhere far off,
A breeze arrives with a sweetness,
And a promise borne on its breath.
Hope is whispered from trees ready to burst forth,
Snow ready to melt,
And frost ready to find its home elsewhere.
It is the moment of triumph seen in the distance,
When the hero presses through the dark,
Prepared to face the battle,
And, though being ready to try and fail,
He is sure that he can win.

Stories cycle as the seasons,
And sometimes cycle several times before the story's through.
When seasons slip by so swiftly,
Life's story often seems to land
On the brink.