The Cycle

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The quiv’ring bud is light with dew,
and shivers in the breeze;
it holds the world’s most temperate hue
the gentlest green that’s e’er been seen.

Now summer’s quick, flamboyant hand
spreads colour far and wide;
the bud will reach up from the land
so soon exposed, and recognized.

As Leo shakes his mighty head
all nature is unfurled.
The flower dons a vibrant red
and laughs aloud for all the world.

Through moonlit nights the flower sways
in perfect, passioned rhythm.
It needs more time, and so it prays --
but Earth’s made her decision.

The Autumn winds blow strong and cool
across the fading grass.
The crickets cease their symphony;
the golden leaves are falling fast.

Although the green has come and gone,
and nature’s slowly dying,
the tie-dyed paint will splash the trees,
the final colours flying.

The world’s matured, it’s done it’s time,
the flower sits in waiting.
It’s seen the dark, it’s seen the light --
it knows the world is fading.

Like shards of glass, the snowflakes fall,
so beautiful, and calm.
The flower takes a final breath,
and slips beneath the winter shawl.

The silence of this winters day
the power of the cold,
is soon to cease, I’m glad to say,
in stories yet untold.





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