Where Softly the Seasons Turn

Today’s poem uses a new term I’ve wanted to try for a while. My goal is to see if this stylistic experiment works or fails. Poets have often used special names for God or Nature. I wanted a term that fits my writing style. I need a guide for the reader, showing them who or what I am describing.

That is where “The Weaver” comes into play. It has a history as a philosophical term for the Creator. My aim is to use it for both God and Nature. I see nature as God’s design. Time will tell if this works. If it fails, I will find another term. But I love the idea of “The Weaver.” I hope it finds a home in my work.

Note:

In a world that often leans toward noise and unease, there remain quieter patterns that move beneath it all. Spring returns in its own time, unhurried, unannounced, softening edges, stirring what lay still.

This poem dwells in those in-between spaces, where change is felt more than seen, and where something subtle seems to shape the turning of things. “The Weaver” is offered as a name for that quiet presence, not fixed, not defined, but gently suggested, like a thread running through wind, water, and waking earth, there to be noticed, or simply felt.

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_{This is the best possible image for this Poem. Which works for this Poem and for this topic. All thanks go to AI that provides an image that works for this task. Thus credit goes to AI for the image.}

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Where Softly the Seasons Turn




This soft spring rain returns in time,
While wandering winds still weave their rhyme,
With whispered will that wakes and sings,
Unseen, yet stirs the soul of spring.


The keen, cold breath upon the gale,
Bends bracing branch and blanches pale,
Yet through the thread the Weaver lays,
A quiet strength outlasts the days.


The blackbird spills a silvered note,
On lilting light the low winds float,
The robin, round with ruddy breast,
Replies in chords that softly rest.


The brook runs bright through root and stone,
Each winding word not of its own,
But drawn as if by hidden hand,
Through moss and memory of land.


So too the thread through all things slips,
Through folded leaf and petaled lips,
Where doubt once dwelt and shadows cast,
A gentler pattern holds at last.


A garden gathers, stirred from sleep,
Where silent seeds their secrets keep,
Till tender tendrils, curled and slight,
Unfurl in faith toward filtered light.


All harshness hushes, side by side,
As quieter currents turn the tide,
And warmth, once withheld, now softly told,
Finds waiting palms no longer cold.





Copyright © 2026 Pat Fitzgerald 
All Rights Reserved 

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Thank you for coming with me on my little journey, that is composing or writing poetry. Life is a journey we all walk on. My journey in creating poetry is a journey of its own. Which I still learn much on as I write.

At times I experiment on techniques or ways to improve my poetry. Getting feedback is always most welcome for efforts like these.

When I write poetry, some readers will be offended with something within the poetry. I do not write to offend, But such are written for reasons I outline in the posts. Often I miss typos and mistakes when publishing each poem. I correct the moment I discover such mistakes.

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