Progress

Some speak of the inevitability of progress.

While I rhyme of springtime

And trees that bud in ancient  woods.

But autumn will surely come

And the trees undress.

 

 

Bare branches breed despair in some.

But spring sun will come

And buds appear in gardens and woods.

For nature has her cycle

Of death and rebirth

And cares not for what

We label as progress.