The Magic of Spring
A tree after the fall or in winter,
Is not what it was, but a mere splinter.
Glory stripped naked of it’s cov’ring leaves.
Looks like death and loss, the naive perceives.
Like veins without body, there’s no value.
It’s fate altered by some unplanned snafu.
A careful soul will notice the pattern.
Nature’s outstretched limb holding a lantern.
Spring takes the stage like a magician’s sleeve.
Promises to bloom, if you dare believe.
Then, new buds emerge between a few blinks.
Full and alive, expectations hood winked.
Now a pillar of strength to the fullest.
Shading locals and even some tourists.
A symbol of life and longevity.
This tree here stands for all to plainly see.
Now burns in colors we would not have guessed.
The scene’ry and onlookers are so blessed.
And then it happens, leaves fall like ashes.
A skeleton, our memory clashes.
Previous glory forgotten by some.
Yet, others await the pending outcome.
These dry bones once slain will arise again.
With branches full and waving in the wind.
So, today I may be humbled and gaunt.
Shackled to a fate that I did not want.
Recall the pattern shown by a lantern.
To rise anew, as someone who mattered.
Copyright © John Grindle | Year Posted 2019
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