Where is her rival?

Why does the sweet Spring send its rain to sing its purple and pink unless it was for her to hear? Why does the Summer sun bake the hard clay if it was not to set the reds, yellows, and whites to frame her? Why will the winds of Autumn vanquish the color of the ground and shout their gold to the skies if not to lament its beauty beside hers? And why the death of Winter if not a surrender to her for she remains unbowed...unmoved...unmatched...

In her ever-increasing beauty.


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