Celestial magic, the sun, the Earth,
the moon and those who
watch the world in humble thought,
there is no strength in haste, no understanding in fear.
Buds will form, and in innocent hope, we welcome
their final emergence in hopeless abandon,
the transient travel of snow to lower depths,
shards of symbolism, the cyclical reminders of our birth
the inevitable recognition the coming of our deaths
the replacements, weighed on a scored scale, our next generation.
What do we know, if only what we don’t of this world,
those who determine the score, demand justice in the face
of this infinite progression of hate,
bring death to the only ones left who know life.
I understand more than I like.
There are no replacements, only more strife.
The cycle continues and again, we forget the seasons.