I await the hands of Fate
to shape and mold me through the years
I feel the strain of each subtle change
as I prepare for laughter or tears

I hear the bells in the chapel knell
across the hills of the country parish
and I stand nude for a change of mood
for death or a foundling marriage

No emotion of mine is born of time
nor the acts occurring with it
for the spin I feel is of a different wheel
which marks neither deeds nor minutes

I push the clouds across Autumn skies
and sweep them away for June
I bring the snow that December knows
and the rain for Spring afternoons

I am the perfume in the sweetpeas bloom
and the blackberry amid the briars
I am and I do, yes, both are true
for I exist to feed the fire.