Elder
Your April innocence lost as persistent
drizzle arouses
a deepening green.
By May you are euphoric, hands raised,
tips awaiting a
fluttering of white butterflies.
The lawn sprinkles daisies at my feet,
I feel like
Flora,
or Persephone returned from the deeps,
wreathing my hair with heady blue lilac,
apple blossom, early rose buds, fleetingly
re-living my youth, my yearning
for fresh fields, new faces,
futures yet unlived.
Now, I, the elder; we wait, watch.
Many seasons pass, cycles repeat,
knowing each shows promise
of growth, spiralling upwards
while silently sedimenting
rings within.
