Summertime, Billy Holiday plays
As the hot sun spreads like butter over the trees.
The grass tickles the toes of children at play
Before a chill comes to breezes that blow.

Wind combs trees, heavy handed
Discarding leaves like so much flotsam adrift at sea.
Their bony crunch underfoot reminds us
Of the cold, dead future in store.

Deserted of life, brown and bare winter cold cracks limbs;
They stare with angry faces,
Moaning as the wind wrenches again and again.
Cloaked in ice, they hold buds alive deep inside.

Exuberantly pops the blossoms luring
The bumblebee to work for free.
Erasing the death that came before
And ensuring, after spring, a fruitful summer.

The seasons' constant cycle of birth, life, and death
Requires time to reflect on our growth,
Reflect on our life, and
Reflect that we, too, must face death.