A Bowl Of Quince

While things are happening, wonderful things,
Terrible things, things we shall not forget
For as long as we live, things to regret,
To be proud of (or not!), the so-called ‘slings
And arrows of...’ etcetera, the scary swings
And roundabouts of living — while we fret
That doctors may not cure us or that debt
Will sink our fledgling start-up — life grows wings.
For us, the world is coming to an end,
Our bitter tears and curses dun the ears
Of gods gone deaf, our guardian angels wince
To watch us build up castles of our fears
Or tear apart a clock we cannot mend.
Meanwhile, spring came;
a flower;
a bee;
this quince!