What Does It Benefit? Poem by Mark Heathcote

What does it benefit, crying alone?
Of-cause, the rains are going to fall
the seasons, they shall all be overturned-
like tables at a poker game,
their pages are like a doomsday book.
But with each new paragraph-
there's a white unwritten sheet-
that's as frigid as a dewdrop fall,
just declined from a fern's uncurling frond.
For every page of death
has a little breath left?
So, what does it benefit, crying alone?
Use those ferns uncurling nib,
and write just another line.