Oak Tree

If by Spring morn you are birthed,
by the Summer you do die.
the Winter leaves you naked,
the Autumn leaves you dry.

The sand does leave you heated,
the snow does leave you cold.
Your battle yet defeated,
your crumbled shell lays gold.

Your seeds shall blow through yonder,
as they drink away the rain.
The air shall lay once cleaner,
as growth eases mothers pain.