By James Roller
Seasons come and seasons go,
But 'neath the winter's plains of snow,
A garden deep, in rich soil lies.
But see, no honey bee there flies.
You too, my dear, are here today.
So why must foolish shyness play,
Instead of hands and eyes and lips
In Aphrodite's sweeter grips?
Now take the lusty butterfly,
Who just has mated, now must die.
For him the death is quite okay,
For he has held a love today.
Or birds who have no care or need
For man's adept deceit and greed,
Who do no bad, but only good,
Make love about the neighborhood.
So who are we, with fatal flaws,
To doubt the clout of Nature’s laws,
Like always, opposites attract.
We too, should prove this nat'ral fact.
Like deer upon the autumn fields,
The stag bucks and the doe will yield.
So who are we to doubt the ways
Of such a game as nature plays?
Oh, never let us be like words,
Which never spoken, never heard,
Will fall in indecision's waste,
A feast for two that none would taste.
Like flowers, poised in gardens fair
With pistols, stamen in the air,
Will wait until the time is right,
Then mate within the springtime light.
c. Dec 1993
Comments