There once was a path where I often trod,
With dense petioles and weeping trees.
Where color was a facet considered quite odd,
Where the bitter seized the life of the bees.

In my gray abyss I settled into being,
As my soul was let loose to fly.
And I traveled until I was no longer seeing,
Only wishing I could escape to the sky.

But I trapped myself down and stayed on soil,
Where I found I just felt at home.
And though I was choked by inner turmoil,
I did not once feel alone.

I often stooped down to graze the path,
The dead leaves and barren way.
And I pondered my choices and the aftermath,
To see what the path had to say.

It said when winter comes bitter cold does too,
And the wildlife does not have a say.
Every thing dies and the sky is less blue,
And the snow consumes every day.

But even when death swallows the green,
There is still much living to be done.
For even amidst the unforgiving winter,
The plants grasp sight of the sun.