Wane

Growth, growth, how lovely, how impossible,
how idiotic to assume that growth can continue unimpeded.
Growth, growth, the sprout bursting from the cold earth,
how necessary for a time, but is the scythe
not as glorious as the weeds in its sweep?
Do the seed and the fire equally warm the earth? Growth, death,
both reflections in a mirror changed by the angle,
decline, the devastation of old things,
the wriggling swarm of new life,
the clarion call of changing seasons,
the frozen sap thawing for the bloom.
There is a time when the growth is long and horrid,
a time to cut and burn, to raze and salt and kill.

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