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of the seasons
We move as the earth does—slowly, steadily, in rhythm with the light.
Each season leaves its trace:
the hush of winter, the reach of spring,
the wide breath of summer, the falling inward of autumn.
To live alongside the seasons is to listen.
To lean into the pause, the swell, the shift.
To remember that nothing blooms all the time—
but everything has its moment in the sun.
A whisper of warmth, spring unfurls. Snowdrops, primroses, and bluebells, a spectral bloom, ghost through the awakening woods. Hedgerows sigh with new life, a silent invitation to wander. Each footfall on mossy paths echoes the earth's timeless, ethereal renewal.
Golden haze, thistle-down drifts, busy bees. Hedgerows thick with elderflower, scenting the air. Distant church bells chime, a slow, soft echo. Long shadows stretch across the fields.
Amber, crimson, and gold, autumn paints the ancient trees, their leaves adrift on crisp air. Damp moss and woodsmoke scent misty woodlands and frost-kissed fields, inviting quiet wanderings, and whispers of the haunting season. Evenings glow with flickering fires and the promise of warmth and hearty fare, a comforting shield against the encroaching shadows.
Long, dark nights descend, nature hushed, snow draping distant hills. Frost stills the landscape, while candlelight warms homes, a gentle glow against the early dark, a peaceful haven from winter's cold embrace.
