Signifying Seasons
By Bill Sorrell
Can you fault a tree for
Losing its leaves?
As it aches for the lushness
And longingly cleaves?
Summers of shade
For the life below
Wind blown leaves
Rustling low.
Children mounting
From limb to branch,
Climbing high,
Taking a chance.
Birds with their young,
Then protestations
As a circling hawk
Bids molestations.
Perhaps a swing
With an old used tire
And a laughing lad
Going higher and higher.
A season seems
To identify
But changes are coming
Bye and bye
A man’s a man
And a tree’s a tree
But God, how they both
Yearn to be free.
Rooted in soil
Nowhere to go
Yearly rings
Evolving slow.
He yearns for the sky
And clear blue expanse
The same for the shrubs
And all of the plants.
If you say of a man
That he is a plumber
Or a pearl diving loser
Or something dumber
You stunt the ascension
To the sought after goal
You picked on a part
And not on the whole,
A man or a tree
Will always be: seasonal
Branding them in the here and now
In nature’s world, is treasonable.
