Green was the leaf and new and fresh
Life was so full and free, no mess
Scorned were the weeds, and gently pulled
Nothing was left to wound the mold.
But gone were the days good and fair
Life was a jail, weighty to bear
Back were the weeds, the thorny twig
Nothing lovely; poor, feeble fig.
Storm and winds came, to kill, destroy
The fig so lifeless, weak, no joy
But weeds the winds have also borne
The storm has come to leave no thorn.
Now green is the leaf, new and fresh
Life is again free from all mess
Though storms take visits, fig in cold
Just the job, perfecting the mold.