| General Poetry
posted March 14, 2019
How do the seasons know to bring the spring,
when time moves ever forward by the clock,
and instinct tells the birds to flap their wing,
a snowdrop petalled skirt reveals their frock.
The moon will phase and sometimes cross the sun,
the waves that never tire of lapping shores,
the births and deaths of life when we succumb
to time’s perpetual swing, we keep the score.
So why do we complain about the change,
when nature is reliable and true?
We must accept the truth, we can’t stall age,
and we are like the seasons that renew.
A wise man knows that time is short on earth,
as growing old is practiced from our birth.
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