We become reduced
by the strength of day;
it starts like honey
but can turn to tar.
We seek shade under
the cool of willows,
harmless on a rivers edge,
there branches whisper as
breezes slip through.
Songs of riches bring us
to the mountain of hope.
Wealth fails to provide
the joy as seasons pass.
So let the fire burn
and the ashes fall.
It all returns into the dust
of things once old,
now reshaped and new.
Roger Singer 