The Cycle of Change

Withered, worn out and weathered
I wonder whether I can continue to stand on this dirt that feels more like sand.
The fruit of abundance
that took months of patience and pruning
now lays decaying
beside the branches that have broken off from every deep frost
or thrust
of wind

Will I ever win?

Or is life less of a game and more like a thread of losses, looped around the last limp branches of my soul?
Or will we ever know
what is good and what is evil?

If my roots begin to rot
is it my fault or just my lot?

And what about reincarnation:
the resurrection of my death into a new creation?

It starts to get muddy like the earth I stand on
when these lines in the sand start to shift and sink in
When all I have left is this rough skin, these bones within, these last breaths and these new buds
with the promise of Spring

Spring

Maybe new life can be birthed within

Maybe this change in season and this sand, covered covenant continues in all things

Maybe this is the only thing that wins:
the cycle of change that only ever begins.