The Present Gift
A river flows and flows and flows and flows and then suddenly it stops.
Feeding into an unknown body of water that in itself contains infinite drops.
The one inevitably joins the other until they are indistinguishable from one another.
Children of the stream that flow in time journeying back to the eternal mother.
Is it any wonder that when a baby is born all it seems to want to do is cry.
For what is the true purpose of nature if not to simply live and then to die.
Birthed into a world of constant change feeling like a ship wrecklessly floating adrift.
Destined to forever lose the things you love, though always told that life’s a precious gift.
But when a storm cloud turns to rain, does it lament giving up a vital piece of its identity?
Do the stars of the night sky complain, knowing one day they will lose their luminosity?
Perhaps all the flowers of the field in spring do realize their existence is evanescent.
Maybe they know the only thing with true meaning is here and now, in the midst of the eternal present.
Feeding into an unknown body of water that in itself contains infinite drops.
The one inevitably joins the other until they are indistinguishable from one another.
Children of the stream that flow in time journeying back to the eternal mother.
Is it any wonder that when a baby is born all it seems to want to do is cry.
For what is the true purpose of nature if not to simply live and then to die.
Birthed into a world of constant change feeling like a ship wrecklessly floating adrift.
Destined to forever lose the things you love, though always told that life’s a precious gift.
But when a storm cloud turns to rain, does it lament giving up a vital piece of its identity?
Do the stars of the night sky complain, knowing one day they will lose their luminosity?
Perhaps all the flowers of the field in spring do realize their existence is evanescent.
Maybe they know the only thing with true meaning is here and now, in the midst of the eternal present.
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