The ruby-throated hummingbird

that waves its tender wings

and sporadically hovers

above the white petunia

to suck its nectar

shall return.

The chestnut rabbit that digs

a home for itself in your yard

and conspires to feast

on your harvest

under the night’s jewel

shall return.

The evergreen moss

that climbs your brick wall,

weaving through the cracks

and grasping for light

it will never reach,

shall return.

But soon the burnished gold of your hair,

which shines in vain under the sun,

will be a summit trapped under snow.

And the poinsettia hue that ignites

your complexion will wither,

your cheeks fossilizing.

Disenchant yourself!

For time always triumphs

with hearty contempt.

Your gentle neck,

once a shining glass,

will become, like you,

earth, smoke, dust.