A Breeze
Warm on the face. Hung with pollen, promise and prescience.
A breeze springs from the east,
where it might blow, we worry least.
Leaving in its wake fresh grass’s startling green quintessence,
nodding heads of saplings, sprouting proud, with fresh promise tense.
The sun’s heat spills on burgeoning new growth, stronger each hour.
Seems nothing can resist,
the sun and rain’s sweet tryst.
Blooms on strong stems host frantic bees on boughs that skywards tower.
Such might! Hard then accepting such a scene might so soon sour.
Browns and reds subsume the sylvan scene: greens fade, sap drys.
The breeze now with an edge,
and an unwelcome pledge.
Fierce blues fade as clouds melt into dull and endless skies.
Robbed of sap and sun; branches bare; remaining, no surprise.
A chill breeze now, pushing dry leaves across the forest floor.
Carries its cargo west,
towards its final rest.
Still, chill, lost will: the seconds count down to that one last door.
Fringed now by hard hoar, the last breath falters; no more in store.
