Untitled #3

A garden's path is never straight.
It groans and twists under the weight,
Of people moving two and fro.
All trying to find the right way to go.

It takes time for the path to right.
To shape its markers and perfect it’s light,
Filling just dirt with flowers and trees.
Welcoming all with the buzz of bees.

By now it’s path has cobblestone patches.
With painted wooden gates, and bronze latches.
Ladybugs fly through on the spring and summer wind,
All trying to prepare for the coming din.

Winter will see the flowers buried.
By flurries and snowstorms that have come hurried.
The trees go to sleep and so do the bugs,
No longer embracing us all with their buzzing melodies and shade filled hugs.

This we must come to accept, this circle of life.
Our lives are garden paths many full of nothing but strife.
Broken fences or rusting gates,
Many do not accept their inevitable fates.

We all start with a Spring, youth full and ever changing.
We grow into Summers where we begin rearranging.
Soon comes our Autumn time were we remember all we sot.
Then in Winter many find nothing but rot.

It takes years to fully build the garden that is just right for you.
Not every ones is going to be the same this is true.
Everyone is different.
Just because they aren't like you don't cast hate on them, it is irrelevant.

We are all in this the same.
Till our last Winter's night calls our name.
Cherish every smile and new sun rise.
All the family and friends with whom we have ties.