My Senses Ends

It happens almost every time
That winter ends get tangled up
We turn to beams of light
Or ways of life
To make the night
Not full of death
And lakes serrate up to the grave
We've buried there
Sweet-smelling beams
And these are waves
Mound-bounding seams
Might not say, "Thanks"
Or ask you please
But they'll treat
You just the same
In the same way
As they would, sweetly
Other things

It's coming up
That makes you tired
And going down
That makes you sore
So catching breaths
With aching limbs
We all walked back
To the car, then

It happens almost every time
My senses' ends get tangled up
That I'm seeing things
Or I have dreams
But always crescent
Parts of breezes