Does Winter come upon an hour

to crush the bloom of autumn flower,

to take the silken petalled ball

before its fading beauty falls.

 

Or does it come in malcontent

blown by cruel winds that won't relent,

to drive it hard without reprieve

that all that lived before must leave.

 

And we who watch those come and go

just like the seasons cannot know,

when turns our tide with waning moon

nor if that day is coming soon.