It isn’t but to pass, the waning hour
Of desire and that opportunity nearly squandered -
The soul’s calloused scars of never-ending promise,
Denied in the vitriolic stream of unrelenting time.
She marches onward, unaware and unconcerned -
The iron pots that catch the winter rain, at first,
Giving life, before yielding to the springtime larvae
That aim to take it - unaware of the original intent.
This isn’t about the fawn, the calf, or the
Wide-eyed infant fixated on spinning toys
Dangled above his wooden prison -
It’s about the river and the delta,
It’s about the golden leaves.
Was that not a fading ember gasping last its final glow?
While the conflagration may relieve the forest of its vitality,
It proves essential to Darwinian prosperity -
We are life, and as life, we push through the ash
Of Pinatubo and Saint Helens.
Those towers, symbols, they might crumble,
But what is best is yet to be realized, friend -
They aren’t squandered, tragic, twisted,
Smoldered relics of achievement and faded glory -
But rather, opportunities to thrust through, renewed and anew -
Greater than the original intent and stronger than before.
The calloused resolve, the indomitable fortress of
Freedom, like a pinecone, requires flame to flourish.