the seasons of the year go 'round
and each specific treasures bring.
the tiny leaves that bud in spring,
by fall in pieces on the ground,

seeds resting 'neath the winter's snow
grow into crops by harvest time
creation follows paradigm
without a thought, as if all know

what we do not, until we've found
through insights wrought behind the brows
that life is thing that death allows
as lightnings come 'ere thunders sound.

just so, inevitable - death
necessity is, unto breath.