Time

Each year, with every passing season, and with each leaf that dies and falls to the ground, the paradox found in the presence of absence, makes her remember the reason it is significant to cherish the tiny magical moments that are felt; in a warm hand on the small of the back, the comfort of fingers as they run gently through hair, and joy tasted with tongues wrapped in song...to capture life with love, and be loved by those whom we find, before they are gone.

Out of all the people that surround us, only a precious few are allowed so close to see such tears. It is only those that choose to persist who witness the sacred smile that follows, and who are graced with the one with even more reflexive depth than the ones that came before; like the fresh snow that follows the death of green, or a barren tree that withers before it again yields fruit; the majesty of becoming, takes just a little more time.

Time. In the everlasting shift, in the seasons of moments, love becomes the ability to grasp that which is sacred in the moment; the endurance, despite doubt and pain to accept the imperfection found in the inability for all things to remain, yet want with bare humility and with blatant hope for a tomorrow all the same. Neither is there a perpetual summer that can always exist, nor anything broken that cannot be fixed.

Those who love us are a crackling fire on the coldest of winter days; the pure warmth which requires simply to not be taken for granted, and the embers occasionally stoked. It is harder with a snowbird always leaving for an easier season, or someone seducing new beginnings, so consistently provoked.

And so for now, there is only the wondering ponderousness of want, and the telling truth of time…the necessity of letting go, and intricate gift of space; that you might know if all that I can offer is anything worth a little more time, or if we will just fade away like embers to ash, left with absence, and a now to be replaced.