In a world of light and movement
Wind blows the seasons into quarters
Tempting and retracting
Settling into something called warmth
Not hot or cold
Just warm and temperate

And here is what we like
A warm place
Not hot or cold
Just warm and temperate

And yet our visions of our future
They cannot be simply warm
Because warm is what we like
Where we are
Where we stay

But movement requires a taste
A taste for what is hot or what is cold
And a desire for change
A desire for the seasons

And if we do not move
We will certainly have our couch
That we have always had
That has the dent where we always recline

But the world, of light and movement
It does not save dents
Because it heals where it has been stepped upon
Changed, but not destroyed

Death and life
The earth, receiving again that from whence it came
Prepares the soil

And we like the life part
Not the death part
We're scared of the death part
Because it's written within us to protect the life part

And we think that death means we didn't protect life
But this is not so
Because life has a season
And if it stays on its couch
It ceases to be what it is
Movement

And time is movement
And in it exists all things
It cannot be stopped
Yet it is not the enemy
But rather the eternal reminder
That we are grass
Here today
Maybe not tomorrow

And so in my frailty
I desire to stop it all
Stop the seasons from changing
So I can begin to steady my grip
And stop feeling so nudged

Yet whatever I hold onto
Is moving as well
And it will live and die
Forcing me to accept hot and cold

And in this
Somehow and somewhere
There is quiet comfort
Though I forget it every thirty seconds or so
As I see the life and death of my inner peace
And I am forced to remember
I am one dependent