And the seasons change,
far too slowly, too fast, too erratically
to ever know quite where you are.
Tomorrow, even today is a mystery. a waiting
for the flagrant fire of love,
the darkness of loss and depression,
Moments of sunlight and the darkness of clouds,
a cosmic guessing game with nothing certain
except the next beginning.
About this poem
I work two days a week in Hospice, as a spiritual counselor, sort of like an in-house chaplain. It would be unbearable work if I did not believe in a life after death. As it is, it is vastly rewarding.
I live in Vermont, where each day is a new season, and unpredictable. The picture was taken not far from my home.
From those two things, this poem.