They pass. From one season to the next encompassing the circle.
The circle that never gives.
Everlasting, like that rock you once threw that skipped along the water; and upon ripples your dreams fogged up into some reality.
And then, stop. The lily pad stopped it. Where frogs lie and sweep their flies.
And the end to a beginning is the fathom.
What beauty in disintegration.
What life in so called death.
What hope after a long cold winter and a lone flower blooms; her name is hope.
She lies deep within us all.
