Seasons Tankas

By Amy Thomson 



Pitter patter rain
drenches the seeds in false hope.
Rotting in the soil,
by the time the sun peeks through,
they are helpless to its gaze.


The sun’s teasing heat
attracts the tear-soaked seed’s trust
stupidly hopeful.
For golden warmth becomes flame,
scorching happiness in them.


Harvest yields despair,
as the green sea turns topaz.
Empty fields weep soft.
Nothing to show but dismay,
seeds slip deeper in anguish.


Naked trees shiver
in their white blanket of snow.
Death’s seductive breath
whispers to the sleepy seeds,
calling them back home again.


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