The flowers and trees

are going to bloom

hard and beautiful,

this spring.

Cycles are upon us;

as Atlas,

so dutifully,

holds up the earth.

The windows are open

and time blows

coolly through us,

rustling our shackles

of vanity,

with its undulating

sway of rhythm.

Those who live by

that tick-tock clock

and traffic measured

by a metronomic

rhythm of life,

have been doomed

to lose the cycles.

They never go away;

of course,

just go on

unnoticed,

through this modern

lens of time.

We,

who hold true,

to the earth

and the moon,

to undulation

and humanity,

fear not

for the future.

It is decided

and flows accordingly;

about as controllable

as a river is

to a rock.

We are not worried.

We will re-bloom;

hard and beautiful.