Soon season's truth
cruelly lingers, looms,
moves to darken daylit view;
as dusk encroaches, colors move,
hues reduced and trees left mute.

You cannot wish
or want or choose
wildflowers too
wont wilt where grew
as if futilely doomed
once winter wounds
will chill to ruin,
beauty we lose
illuminated only by
a cold white moon.

For springtime comes
and i swear to you
no matter what we knew
or became so used to
amidst the weeds
our heirloom seeds
still bloom anew–
if only wait,
I'll prove to you.