He liked to glimpse their snowy blooms
among all that stark wood of spring
and to recalculate the years
he had unused, those remaining
to him. Life completely reduced
to a mathematical equation.
The fullness of the year, in truth,
left him wandering and overcome
when summer light invited him
to see how the sun turned the leaves
a paler shade of green, then white,
shifting brightly in the breeze.
To pick the fruit that hung in clumps
then pop them in his mouth, each fall,
he would heed the call to stumble
about the fallen leaves and logs.
Until frost or snow blanketed
the ground, the bare limbs, the withered
branches. He would conjure up more
reasons to visit each winter.