The poplar recedes down to the sky,
The lake, it’s figure kin.
The poplar feigns a wave goodbye,
The seasons depart again.
“When will you die,” Spring sings aloud
With fields of vibrant silk adorned.
“When will you bask in us no more,
The seasons so abhorred?”
Then comes Orchids, Golden Stars,
Butterfly Tulips, Tarp, and Dasheen.
Then comes the music of all fragrant loam,
The world in flora, heat, serene.

The sun pelts down like rivulet beams,
The arms, the hands of puzzled Summer.
He says with a glance, so curiously:
“Here I am, yet again, oh eternal poplar.
And may I ask another time, when will you
Bathe in us no more?”
And the poplar waves a feigned goodbye,
“eternity,” the poplar swore.

Autumn takes another turn
To question resilient limbs.
“Why, dear poplar don’t you fade?”
Autumn asked in hymn.
“And when others have so willingly left
To die alone,
Why do you still stand at halt
Like unbreakable bones”

Winter takes it’s deathly route
And tries another time.
“Are you ready dear poplar,
To sleep well now,
under the blankets of mine?”
And the polar replies, “I’d rather comply
With Eternity’s worthy rhyme.
For I have seen Love, your moving kinsman, and it
Has wrought me still.”
 
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