Cycles

Photo by Simon Wilkes on Unsplash

I burrow, burrow, deep-deep down
while pale green leaves are turning brown.
I wonder if I’ve done enough;
I’m lagging, but still growing up.

I’ve lost my sight to the sharp-sun-glare,
I’ve danced in the decay of autumn air.
That shocking breath,
of fresh white death;

come wintertime I bloom.

Bright blue in hue, and whispering true:
“I must leave spring, but I can’t leave you,”

come hold me wile I go.