The Coming

A poem about the seasons

Day by shortening day the sun abandons it's world.
As the days grow ever more frigid,
The leaves of plants become ever so curled.
Become dead as to never have lived.

Past the reach of ordinary seeing
Only to rest in the shadows,
This cold world is not dead, only sleeping.
Everything soon regrows.

Beneath the cover of darkness
Outstretched fingers reach for the dark sky.
Everything grows in lonliness,
Living in the world of a lie.

Everything grows like a small goat's bleating,
Only to soon depart.
Perhaps the essence of this nature is beyond seeing,
Like the beating of every heart.