That time

Watch the grass shy in advent-

It shall cry;

Sheltered in its bedewed scent.

 

See an olive moss soak-

It shall dry;

Sown sleepily under a sloughing oak,

Bitten by seasons forlorn oath.

 

See the wind in plume-

It shall die;

Pollen reminiscent in its womb-

Of the time it flew.

 

Hear the tickling note-

It’s that time;

Bronzed leaves jingle in float-

Their artlessness speaks it all:

One cycle…

Chained to all.

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