Roger Singer

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.