Stripes of black hovered around the waves of red,
As if asking, “may I?”
And although it couldn’t nod its head,
The crimson replied, “alright.”

The visitor knew to do its job,
To transport the seeds of life.
Yet it also wanted to say awhile,
It’d found something it liked.

The crimson could never move;
It was an idea of strife.
Yet whenever the visitor came,
It brought a sliver of light.

But then the visitor had to leave,
For it was again time for the white.
And the crimson began to weep and fall,
Saying, “no, you are my life.”

But there was no choice,
It was time to leave.
For both visitor and crimson,
To wilt and weep.

The white was harsh,
Its freeze was a bite.
Yet the crimson waited…waited…waited…
Waited to see its light.
Waited to find its life.
Waited to finish the fight.

And then the white ended.
The green came around.
And with that warmth,
A certain sound.

Bzzzt! Bzzzt!
The visitor’s sound,
The sound it waited for,
The one that it found.