If trees move through seasons — and their loveliness only changes to reveal itself in new forms — then why not consider that Love has Her seasons too? And is any season more beau­tiful than another, or is it just that we tend to forget those very special elements each has to offer in its own time and on its terms?

Is spring greater than winter? Summer more important than fall? Don’t they really need one another in order to be all that they are?