Seasons

Trip and fall
But don't fall backwards
Into the spinning hands
Of time's intimate embrace
Where lunacy exposed
Shows little hands reaching
For cyclic occurrences
Of comfortable
Looking back
Never made so much sense
Where to turn around
Would leave one
Destitute
Misery
company
and all that jazz

Squash the thoughts of
Rising above the
glass menageries
They are sometimes
Too strong to break
Kissing the wind
seems a more
Fruitful pursuit
Than clinging to the unknown
It seems more intelligent
Than turning toward
Silent bullets
Aimed to blind
This thing is like
the seasons
Blending change in
with the false confidence
Of what is to come
Will always bear fruit
Sometimes the tree
Is tired
Sometimes
the harvest is late
And sometimes
Love looks more
like an enemy
Than a friend