My Seasons Poem by chris schwartz

the art of one is not recognized
Til he spends his last breath
Dreaming
Til his soul has gone
With certainty
And left others behind
Still keeping
His memory alive.
Now they need him
To thrive.

Much like the cherry blossoms
Burst after
A cold wet spring
We don't see them
Til they dust the sidewalk
Adorning the cement
With their beauty.
Or the autumn leaves
So glorious,
We never look for them
To fall,
Burying all but their tips
In the dark soil
Of the woodlands.

But our memories place
The sins of our youth
In a special box
Opened only
When time demands
Repentance
From the hearts
Of those who
Remain.