About creation's fleeting pristine state
While lightning flashes that precede the thunder
Precipitate a tempest of debate
Concerning time's eternal, vernal nature
Inevitably dragging young to old
Immortalized by poets' nomenclature
But lovely as the green leaves are the gold
And red and yellow tumbling through the brown yards
Which cede the ground at last to flecks of white
And ice stalactites dripping down like glass shards
Creating rows of crystalline delight.
So never cling to old regrets and tears
To mark the gentle passing of the years.
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