It comes around

I am birth.
I am that which blesses hips and lives,
sending souls into the arms of mothers,
with hematite eyes and newborn cries.

I am the light.
I give color to the fruit,
turning skin and hair and smile,
forming memories in electromagnetics.

I am the soil.
I harbor nutrition and water,
yielding it up to the reaching roots
that explore the depths of my kingdom.

I am a clock.
I change everything, yet I control no one.
Without beginning or end, indifferent,
I wither the eldest of trees.

I am a pathogen.
I am not evil, my intentions are to thrive,
replenishing myself and my children
as a fortress grown strong and impenetrable.

I am medicine.
I am homeopathic and pure,
rushing along in the endocrine
to mingle with blood and adrenaline.

I am the surgeon.
I perform modern miracles on the willing,
grafting body and bone alike,
breathing a delicate balance of life.

I am a river
I stretch my arms wide and run deep,
the visage of eternity, evolving,
facilitating the cycle of water.

I am death.
I am hated by all, but my heart weeps while I walk,
for I did not choose this profession;
I am not without emotion.
I am doomed and I wander alone.
When my job is done, who will come for me?

[Originally posted on The Reluctant Conquistador.]