autotelic, autistic, assonance-hole©.

Life is a garden of annuals

I finally notice winter;
leaves long faded and dropped;
like ashes, they crunch and crackle,
dessicated memories in which nothing remains

What manner of foolishness!
To ever live with only thoughts of spring,
of summer; no heed given to cooler days,
no thoughts toward naked ground or
slumbering life, deep beneath it

Mindful of cycles and seasons, now,
but still surprised by the winter;
leaning to nourish a dropping blossom
only to find it still and lifeless

I am always caught off my guard, it seems;
how much energy, wasted, upon things gone to mulch?
I comfort myself to find it does not harm the garden
tending dead things, wasting my time; good thing
that seedlings care not what happens above ground

Bemused, I rinse my hands at the sink; casting one,
last, somewhat pensive look to beautiful things now gone;
the reality of seasons, passing, ambushes my mind and heart;
the places where there are only thoughts of endless blooming