Don´t place all your bets on the spring
for it doesn’t last forever.
cool breeze that pleasures the skin
to hot blasts that burn the flesh,
and then cold draft chills the bones.
The green of the meadows pales
under the scorching sun.
The thick shady bowers wither –
their green leaves falling one by one;
rusty green, then yellow and brown.
Scraping the earth
in their scratchy cackle.
Raked up in heaps and set to flames
while backpackers revel around.