For Jennifer,
And for us,
It's all seasons,
That go round and round,
Without reasons,
Why new souls are found,
Peeping and amazed.

Little they are,
The flowers and eyes.
Fresh, they open everywhere,
The heart looks.
They open again and again,
And wider and wilder,
And all is new,
And growing.

And filled with life,
To joyful bursting,
So young, so live,
The blossoms and the eyes.

Bright and full and
Filled of joy,
Dizzy and dancing in the sun,
They seek its heat yet know the cold,
Of the silvered pale moon's deep night.
They open and close
And have and lose
And laugh and laugh, but less and less.

And less is new, as peaks are passed,
And growing slows,
And slowness grows, 
For the flowers and the eyes.

The passioned heat,
Has shimmered away,
With shortened days and deeper nights,
The coolness comes,
To sharpen senses,
And from the sun-drugged dream,
the flowers and the eyes.

Refreshed by dew showers, but
Saddened and shrinking
From the hint of a coming end.

The full and moist turn dry and brittle
And sag and shrivel
And wither,
And wait,
The seeds so wetted by the tears.

Sucked away, the huddled ghosts of warmth,
By quick harsh winds
That howl and whistle
And rush the dead
To distant darkness.
Uncaring winds snap
Brittle stems,
And pull the tears from tender eyes.

Lost they are,
And lost they have,
Closed and dry,
The flowers and eyes.