Seasons

The two only branches
From a withered tree,
Both vigorous and fruitful
Through the seasons of life,
And then
The bright mornings and noondays wane,
Turning bleak and burdensome.
Both branches wither,
Losing resilience

As new winds blow.
And there’s no good reason why,
Except
That’s life.

The last mangoes of a season
Should never be sour.
But they sometimes are,
And Daylight Savings
Do no actual hoarding of time,
Putting none of it someplace
Where it could be retrieved
To extend the present,
Or add seasons,
Or claim more of the future,
Or keep branches
From withering.