It's always dawn somewhere...
the fruit of our spinning West to East.

It's always Spring somewhere...
The child of our tilting; just the least.

Ever, always, wobbling forward we turn...
On the edge of freezing, just about to burn.

Four times 'round the sun we go.

Four winds, four calms, four snow.


Pausing briefly to watch him die...
Spring stumbled into that quiet space.

Four times more she wandered in...
Surprised to find his empty place.