Winter’s frost etches patience on bare roots,
Spring unfurls its secrets in trembling shoots.
Summer’s pulse hums a hymn—
then autumn’s sigh lights petals to flame.

Each leaf a sonnet, each storm a refrain,
the earth turns lessons into root and rain.
We grasp at gold, yet it flees,
a harvest of ash, a sky bent low.

But here, in stillness, the garden knows:
time is a loom where all threads grow.