The Dance of Time

BY CAROLE NICHOLS

Gently, quietly, they come to be,
Reaching up to the sun till full bloom.
Perfuming the fresh, cooling breeze,
Innocence leaping from nature's womb.
And the beauty of that newborn time
Brings to eyes wonderous tears
As life dances before them, young and free;
Petaling the ground as summer nears.

Proudly they stand in the brilliant light,
Hot and alive, full of sweet zest;
Bend mockingly into the fury's storm,
Relishing life's dance at it's best.
Energy flows through trunk and limb,
Chasing the wisp of a full blown dream,
Callously searching for what may come,
Forgetting the branches fallen in stream.

Slowly, but surely the autumn creeps in,
And the dress of it's leaves grow old;
Yet it was never so beautiful as now,
It's red canopy touched with midas gold.
And the dance goes on, more deeply so,
For it knows that time will soon be gone;
When the leaves fall down to form a bed,
It's left naked to face the cold unknown.

Finally it stands forlorn, alone,
And the bitter winds bite the skin
Till the soul yearns to lay itself down,
Feeling too tired, too old to begin again.
The snow now forms a soft, white shroud,
The wind whips round with a mournful cry;
The dance of time has run it's course,
Yet buds only slumber, they do not die.