Loss of the Seasons
That Winter, I stood under the willow tree.
Its very limbs encrusted in frozen sorrow,
Sadly waving crystals glinting in the light, hopelessly.
But I thought, "How glittering and inspiring!"
That Spring, I stood under the willow tree.
Sorrow now masked with the sweet smell of deceit,
Seemingly cheerful fronds tickle my face, ominously.
But I thought, "How new and beautiful!"
That Summer, I stood under the willow tree.
Dry crackling leaves of hate concealed by bright ribbons,
Adorned boughs dipping low with the weight of trinkets, painfully.
But I thought, "How happy and bright!"
That Autumn*, I stood underneath the willow tree.
Sighs of rust-brown relief intermingle with fresh green calls of agony,
Soft, snapped branches breathe out and will the cold inside, hesitatingly.
And then, finally, I thought..."For all our intelligence and inventions..."
"How can a simple tree shows more loss than we ever could?"
*I think Americans call it "Fall"?