Restive fields, a seasons grace,
Hath yielded bountiful harvest,
Ingrained in culture and countenance,
Festive, for four seasons in fiefdom.
Time is like symmetry, it would seem,
Obdurate, imbalance troublesome, as
History records famine and plague, with
Mysterious detail about diagnoses.
Friendships get lost in voids distant,
Memory clings like mistletoe to thine host,
As do feelings, harder to explain, sun dial
Dawn heralds birdsong flitter, autumn till.
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