We are but fragile pieces,
before winter comes.
Just flowers with petals lost; or
trees with branches bare;
leafless remnants of nature,
blown by the winter wind.
We shed more pieces of our whole,
struggling against that wind.
We hang on for spring,
hoping it arrives again,
before time rolls us along,
away from where our roots,
have stubbornly taken hold.
Yes, we gather up the pieces,
gather up the pieces,
before they’re lost to the winter wind.