Tiny hearts fall through the air
Implanting fire upon mother’s
Moist, Autumn-warmed body.
 
Rains, whose corrosive fires hasten
Connubial couplings before the ultimate
White flowers of Winter fall.
 
In peeping-violet time
What a handsome fruit is born
From the deep, ripe pleasures
Of a long, cold sleep.
 
A choir can be heard
Singing of this airy miracle.
 
Evening’s growth yields to rosy dawn
And the nourishing sun until years pass.
Then, from towering bowers falls
A new generation.