Forget the poetry of the seasons, and you forget life's poetry in general. Instead, you take your place with the ant-people who toil without ceasing in their eternal twilight. Your tendency to breathe naturally is the same as your tendency to flow in perfect tune with the earth's changing seasons. When you flow with these seasons, you live as a poet lives. You live like a lover who sees his beloved's smile in every sunrise, while every bird that flies above is a gentle thought from her mind.
Every blessed year becomes a fascinating story, even as every breath is a little gift of life.
It would lead to all sorts of unnatural things, to a painful existence whose meaning was difficult to comprehend. But this is precisely the situation with the present Western calendar. People live by this calendar, and they say it is New Year when January 1 rolls around. But January 1 has nothing to do with any natural cycle, and is merely a conventional date that some demented Roman emperor declared to be New Year. Starting your year-long breath on January 1 is to fall, every year, flat on your face.