Time is a Trickster

Like wilted petals we will sit, and grieve
for golden summers gone, and childhoods lost
beneath a blanket of relentless frost.
But tears are fruitless, weeping is naïve:
Time is a trickster – he will always thieve
those precious, fleeting moments when star-cross'd
young lovers meet in bowers; when the cost
is counted in the passions we achieve.
Yet spring returns, and summer's rainbow haze
will spread across familiar fields once more,
as grinning Time grants us a few more days
to heal our hurts, and mend what went before.
The wheel rolls on, it clears the path anew;
the wheel rolls on, and we roll with it too.