Provincial Life

She sits in a house, in a room facing West.
There's no sun to see in the morning, only when it sets.
The seasons come and go like the days,
One after the other, yet she barely knows nature's ways.

In the spring, birds chirp and the grasses grow,
The sun shines, the rains come. It's time to sow.
She sits, barely changing, occasionally moving a hand.
Her eyes see only close ahead, heavy. Open they intend.

Summer washes over the world with heat,
The plants bow in their pale weakness.
She sits, barely sweating. The air is conditioned.
Her body aches, for from exercise it is shunned.

The leaves are falling as autumn falls all around.
Brilliant colors flood the land; the earth is gloriously crowned.
A thought to breath nature's air passes and fades;
Walking outside is an effort, one not worth when in laze.

Winter's wrath threatens all those living
With a freeze that wouldn't mind killing.
Electricity keeps the temperature constant,
But there is a chill that prevents her from being content.

For she has sat in frivolous pursuits
By herself in her own little room.
The little excitement weened from her solitude
Lasted not long enough to bear her everlasting fruit.

Doing nothing spring will come again.
Doing something spring will come again.
It seems a waste for her to have gained nothing.
But in the end even something will amount to nothing.