What to make of this?

Oh, tell me what the future holds
says wattle blowing in the wind
to blossom borne of lesser mind
oh, wintry drought with rain rescinds

her future comes before you know
(and gone by noon and lost to spring)
where voices heard and flowers bloom
bound to shed her destiny

depart – away – be gone by now
says ‘presence’ of the present, found
to make the most of seconds owned
luminescence sparks the evening’s sound.