Birds call, from the edge of the water,
ducks and geese from the middle.
Green points of fresh growth
sprout from the mud.

The sun, revealed by the turning earth
pierces the clouds with rays of light
giving the hope of a warm day.
The air is cool and fresh.

Puddles reflect a world not real,
a poor imitation to remind us of
what we have lost, what we have gained
from what we have made.

Our hands and minds construct, our
will destroys, and builds again
that of which we are proud. Our pride
destroys that which came before.

Shoes leave impressions in the
soft earth, a testament of being,
for those who would see.
Of doing and going, of life.

And we continue, to build and destroy,
to make and to take, never knowing
a true purpose or a reason
for anything, only hope and fear.