I see it traced in garden beds—
wilted stems and tender shoots,
moss that settles over stone,
soil remembering boots.

Roses brown as petals fall,
yet roots hold steady in rain;
a hedge once clipped too eagerly
now grows more gentle in frame.

Winds have carved their quiet lines
through willow leaves and wooden gates,
while slugs leave silver shining trails,
small stories time translates.

Perhaps our lives are much the same:
no season passes without trace.
Ivy climbs through shifting shade,
and seeds hold promise as they wait.

• Every Season Leaves Its Mark By Pillows by Jay Rose Ana