My friend came by the other day
As a leaf in the wind he has blown
From street to street
            Town to town

A wanderer he may be, but not at heart‑‑
He longs to be attached to a tree
                                            Any tree

In spring and summer the leaves are green
                                        And attached
Summer slowly dries them out as the tree
                        Prepares for winter

My friend, the dry brown leaf
Blows in his perpetual autumn

We all grow in our own time and season:

Winter dormancy

         Spring regeneration

                   Summer fulfillment

                               Fall  preparing for the
                                                  
                                            Inevitable season of death

These  seasons of the soul
Are the very essence of our existence

They teach us

                         Temper us

                                                 Fulfill us

But there are those who do not see
The purpose of the seasons
To them winter means only

                                   Cold

                                              Snow

                                                          Desola­tion              

Spring means only

                                Rain

                          ­            Mud

                                              Flooding

Summer means

                                Beauty to mock
                                     The heart in winter

I trust in the wisdom of the seasons
Nature teaches us lessons in her cycles

Let the leaf fall to the ground
Let it rot into cold

                         Stark

                                     Winter desolation

Spring will come

Bleak gray will become bright colours
                  Of spring

The beauty will fade once again but will
Reappear in winter's own stark beauty
Though it may be cold and gray
Then spring will come

          Spring will come.

                  
                     --Daniel Irwin Tucker

She stands in her garden watching daffodils dance in the breeze
Her own hopeful waters sail in a boat where prayers reach her knees
Her mind only clear when her garden is near

Visions of somewhere, anywhere, but here

What’s that river running fast through the veins
Where’s that place where the mind can remain
free and clear
Where the mind can be clear

She never threw dirt on his grave, gave him a stone watching green fields
His own hopeful open space, freedom to die from a living too real
His mind only clear when no one was near

Visions of somewhere, anywhere, but here

What’s that river running fast through the veins
Where’s that place where the mind can remain
free and clear
Where the mind can be clear

Visions of somewhere, anywhere, but here