Through the seasons, changed

If my seeds of friendship never planted,
and I became a jobless dust bowl upon the plain,
if I was the last leaf to fall from my family tree,
and I, homeless, fell upon the roadside snow,
I’d sing with weathered lips,
“He is here. . . He is here. . . .”

Through the seasons, changed–
coalesced by Nature and my nature,
unable to hold my own, beholden to only one
comforting me in this melange of madness.