To Every Thing There Is A Season
I live among rolling hills,
ancient from the ocean of time
that built them into brash young mountains
before wearing them back down
until little remains
but the wisdom of age
eagerly shared as seasonal secrets
in a thousand different ways.
Only yesterday those ancient hills
and hinted before exploding
across the horizon, a riot of color,
shocking with countless branches
clad for a time in autumn’s best,
orange and gold and red.
Today those same branches,
now stark and dark and bare,
stand in cold contrast to winter's snow,
astonishing in binary beauty,
black and white.
Tomorrow, hints of newborn green
will emerge from the many mists of spring,
and what is today only a memory will return -
verdant green from summer’s bounty,
covered in morning dew,
and sleeping beneath long shadows cast
by scattered trees partially blocking
the best efforts of a rising sun.