La Ronde

When crocuses first blazed beneath the trees as harbingers of warmth and light to come, I met you, and the curved continuum transported us beyond high summer's ease. Thanks be to God above that things rotate. The bloom is ruptured by late summer's breath: its seeds, in flying, validate its death. Our cycle is complete. The hour is late. Yet every night is scattered by a dawn, each fallen oak replenishes the soil. If life-in-death brings on us endless toil, the pains of birth and grief, I will not mourn. I know new shoots will strive up from dead ground, and love will flame again, though now snowbound.