Though you yourself seem deathless and divine,
Like all things–fleeting–you, the wind, allay.
What wonder then that you were undefined?
A passing season in another's day.
I saw you with him, ancient evidence,
And who would not be jealous should they lose
That beauty of surpassing eminence?
But you were not the one that he would choose.
And then, we have no clue of where you went.
Why should we when your nature is to turn,
To change, to bring to life the soil's intent,
Then dissipate when Summer comes to burn.
You evanescently immortal one,
Outliving us, you fly when Spring is done.
A place for my poems 