Time's Writing

There written on the leaves is all the pain
The Summer brings, the drought, the death-dry heat,
The tears and bruises, where the worms remain
To bite around the vein, keep fresh the meat.

The flower rises, it's the plant's last stand
Against the dying. Its potential seeds
The soil, its future toil, demand,
And hope fulfilling all its desperate needs.

The Autumn, Winter comes and plants deep death
Across the earth -- we lose all worth and wail
That we won't last -- and so we cast our breath
To tell our seeming senseless untongued tale.

The Spring deluge expands the seed to sprout,
And thus the future dissipates our doubt.