'tis a strange day, most peculiar,
for knowing how all days look familiar,
it hard to imagine aging is so slow,
but I know Time, Piped Piper of the soul.
Knowing how seasons lead to season,
and how yesterday left for no reason,
and knowing that time and season are in this together,
it's no wonder we fail to predict this weather.
I've watched green leaves plucked by hurricanes,
I've watched as juicy fruits were stolen by crows,
I've aged a thousand years through the pains,
I've waited in vain that Time may pay what she owes.
I stagger through time and don't fall,
some say seasons are the whims of a Christian God,
as I grudgingly trudge through it all,
it becomes harder to call aging odd.
The Weather Man, commentator on time,
merging past, present, and future till it's indivisible,
an oracle loved and jilted by many seasons in his prime,
forever warning that the seasons are unpredictable.
The climate in my Soul has changed again,
from tropical sunshine to monsoon winds and rain,
without warning, I'm awash with pains that rock my boat,
where is the Weather Man when I need him the most?
There's a maelstrom of emotion coursing through me,
a powerful sense of anticipation that won't let me be,
but knowing how seasons do change in a trice,
to say that this feeling can't last should and would suffice.