Ovate

Ovate
In the hush of dawn, an ovate pearl
lies cradled in the earth's soft palm,
its curve a whispered promise,
a gentle swell of life.

Through summer's amber gaze,
the ovate fruit swells,
skin blushing rose,
juice singing sweet,
a centre of sun‑kissed gold.

When autumn's breath turns cool,
the ovate leaf lets go,
spiralling down in russet rust,
to rest upon the loam,
where winter's quiet cradle
holds the shape in waiting.

So ovate is more than form;
it is the rhythm of growth,
the quiet echo
of nature's own refrain,
enduring, humble, ever‑true.