no one who feels the changing seasons' bite
can be assured that growth is purely good
since each tall tree each ancient of the wood
that waits there leafless through the winter night
with chilly taproot is in the same plight
as you might be and has for long withstood
the final pain in ways you wish you could
but it wont matter there'll be a last rite
spring is too short and one day sap won't rise
to renew bud and energise new leaf
but for the moment all we have is time
and universes open to our eyes
the products none of them of our belief
while every limb towards the sun must climb