the wind remarks
to the old oak and young willow,
in a season when all is loss
and fields are fallow.
Leaves have flown
on the wings of the migratory birds
and furred creatures have burrowed
deep into the cold earth,
gravely sleeping under cover of frost
The year dies,
resting on its hind legs
upright until the end.
No winning of ribbons or medals-
just the quiet resignation
of the turning earth
and its rotation of season
Everything is vanity,
reminds the wind.
All life stills in the end,
cold as stone in the deepest winter,
certain as old oaks stand sturdy
and young willows weep and bend.