Where but some months ago
They had shimmered
Under the startling gaze
Of the blazing sun,
A bright, resplendent green –
Slowly, with the passage of time,
They mellowed to tinges
Of yellow and orange,
Then rich red wine –
And now they lie
On the cold, ground,
Brittle, dry, dead, and brown –
Nobody waxes eloquent
When they are thus reduced,
From a throne of promise,
And of striking grandeur,
They have been brought low,
And even with the dust
To which they return,
As the earth reclaims
What had always been,
Her very own.

She has no qualms
In receiving the remnants
Of erstwhile striking beauty,
Unflinchingly in equanimity,
Unlike the mortals
Who lavish glory
On all that glitters,
She carries on,
With giving and receiving,
As she has for an eternity.

When you seek wisdom,
In its profoundness,
Look not in the annals
Of books written
By mere mortal hands,
Claiming to be divine;
Look instead, in the seasons
That come and go,
For they are as ancient,
As time itself,
Breathing gently,
Through the waning sun
And the driest spells,
The timeless lessons
Of belonging without boundaries.