Thursday Sonnet: Becoming Spring (I)

Not bricks and mortar make the Roman city.
For Rome is made of stories: it’s the seasons
Which tell them. From a song of spring which pity
Saw lost to time, there sprung the million reasons
For loyalties and treasons which myth’s remedies
Require. The limpid romances of summer,
The labyrinthine autumn tragedies,
Through these and winter Rome did stammer
Beyond sunlight and rain, and now it’s just
A story, told in spring, by which we mould
Our different stories, sewed upon Rome’s dust.
Is that our fate as well? Is that what all
Our cycles of great legends mean – a mere
Becoming spring in someone else’s year?