Fusillade

Inexorably
time marches on. Tides
wash and flow, waves
relentlessly
grind, chewing down to sand
then spitting out granules
of tomorrow.

Inexorably
tomorrow follows today. Night
bequeaths morning's sunrise
unquestionably
even on days of November in March.
And yet the greening tips of daffodils
push upwards.

Inexorably
seconds sand to hours. Nature's orchestra
plays Prelude to Spring
quintessentially
if you listen hard enough.
Watch, wide-eyed, else you blink
and miss the exultation.