By Amy Thomson
Spring
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.
Summer
The sun’s teasing heat
attracts the tear-soaked seed’s trust
stupidly hopeful.
For golden warmth becomes flame,
scorching happiness in them.
Autumn
Harvest yields despair,
as the green sea turns topaz.
Empty fields weep soft.
Nothing to show but dismay,
seeds slip deeper in anguish.
Winter
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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