Tempora by B. Eugene B.

Aestas
Risen within the dominion of chance,
Bold wild flowers, holding forth with their sway.
Flaunting their freedom from beyond the fence,
Showing off with their colorful display.

Making free their offerings to the sky.
Spreading their seedlets with wild abandon,
Each pod left alone for the by-and-by—
Safe in solitude until its season.

Autumnus
Green does not yet fade; green transforms to grey,
Passing through yellow, and gold, and dark red.
Wind dried leaves turn and are carried away
Spreading outward like ashes of the dead.

Keeping me from stepping off the sidewalk,
Remaining solid as a sentinel,
Last lone witness to autumn’s equinox,
Stand patient beside the sun-dried thistle.

Hiems
Calm spreads out in vapor, like silent prayer,
It slowly drifts across patina skies.
Birds call out as they cut arcs through the air,
Make known their existence with sorrowed cries.

Each day is shortened and a cold wind blows.
Icicles like silver fingers point down.
Bare branches carrying the wind and snow,
Softening sharp edges, dampening sound.

Ver
Tiny fern tendrils uncoil through soft earth,
As snow melt reveals the black rotting death.
It’s ironic that when one being gives birth,
Another suffers to take its last breath.

Death and rebirth, like cycles of the moon.
Natural, yet still hard to comprehend.
I accept my body will be dead soon,
Yet not gone—just a return to the mend.

Epilogue
To continue in circle makes us one
With the cosmic origins that call us.
To take another round is to become
The ultimate expression of purpose.