Passing Bliss Poem by Patrick Czyz

In the days of good and old,
The murky air and cold went untold.
The animals meandered the plains-
Free and without worry.
Fruit grew on tree branches.
Food sprung from ranches.
Birds chirped and sang.
All was bliss.

Without words the wind whispered.
The air, now cold and crisper,
Cringes at the hanging leaves.
They shake in the winds.
Some hold on -taut and rigid.
Yet some lose their way:
Falling on the frigid frost.
All bliss is lost.