sort of arrival

no one who feels the changing seasons' bite

can be assured that growth is purely good

since each tall tree each ancient of the wood

that waits there leafless through the winter night

with chilly taproot is in the same plight

as you might be and has for long withstood

the final pain in ways you wish you could

but it wont matter there'll be a last rite

spring is too short and one day sap won't rise

to renew bud and energise new leaf

but for the moment all we have is time

and universes open to our eyes

the products none of them of our belief

while every limb towards the sun must climb