In spring we tell ourselves lies:
that we understand regrowth and death,
its analogue.
A simple cycle, sweet and round
like a milky breast.

I fear the churning waves as we
pass from one age to another.
You die again each spring
against the seasons.

Each season we bury you
and we come back and back.
We don't feel your movement
and our years don't recycle
or nourish, but fall on bare
ground that will always 
resist the buds.