Fields bloom at the same time every season,
In the same colours standing no taller than before,
We anticipate their return from winter vacation,
To only watch them blossom then leave them for bore.

Our knotted spines are but nimble stems,
Bent over willingly at the slightest breeze,
With eyes only for chests filled of gems,
We dismiss the beauty of one as a tease.

Fields bloom at the same time every season,
And each season is not quite like before,
Taking the time to admire each blossom,
Turns every field into a world to explore.