The earth abides by patience.
The roots and stems understand tolerance
as they lay beneath us amidst a bitter winter.
Time to them is nothing like time to us.
They'll wait for the first tender touch of
April to whisper them awake.

We wait for nothing.
We wither along with the bitter change of seasons
even when the sun comes back around,
we complain of its warmth.

Eventually, it trips out of our reach.
Soon we find our bare flesh
laying aside those same roots,
those same stems.
Here, there is patience
as we rot to bone and lay beneath the inevitable
faith of those who are kissed by the sun.