1 2 3 4
‘Everything that presents itself within a pattern proves to be quite precious, do you not agree?’
A flower opened its delicate petals, as Mother Nature cooed through the passing of the winds, bending blades of soft grass.
‘Time, my dearest friend.’
2 4 6 8
‘What is a pattern to a linear way of life?’
Our Father Time responded in the withering of the leaves of the rose bush,
yellow and decaying back into the dirt from which it grew.
‘Only the things that follow the forward march of the minutes define the ways of this world. All clocks come in a circle, you know.’
The dying breath whispered its final word at the very last second.
5 10 15 20
‘this is a world of our nurturing,’ the Mother Nature sighed through the creaking cradle that rocked back and forth, back and forth.
‘Yet, it suffers and dies in your circle of seconds; a line that determines whether I may be, and whether I may not.
‘What pity do you carry for me, when it is you who renders me frail and fragile?’
1 3 5 7
The old grandfather clock struck its bells, turning to two.
‘I pity you, you who does not see the value I bestow you with- the value of a fleeting life; a subject to the principle that all shall end, one moment to the next.’
The old grandfather clock struck once more, turning to three.
‘I surely hope you do not suggest that you may be better off without such value?’
4 3 2 1
‘You are nothing without me,’
Mother Nature raged through the crashing of the waves, hitting the rocks at the end of the waterfall.
‘It is I who gives you meaning. Without a life to reign over, there is no difference between an hour, and a year.
‘Without you I may be free.’
‘And may you lose yourself in the wilds.’
‘May you cave yourself into a spiral.’
‘May I change.’
‘May I grow.’
‘May no wounds be healed.’
‘May no wounds be made.’
‘My darling Time,’
Mother Nature finally croaked through the throats of the crows,
‘May your cantankerous compliance curse you.’
‘My dear Nature,’
Father Time solemnly said through the setting sun, bathing the world blood red,
‘May your accursed stubbornness cost you much more.’
And as the two parted ways,
one turned to two to the ones the two had let go;
four turned to one as the leaves this season never did seem to change,
for only they knew this story.
They told it to the trees,
and the dirt,
and they sang it as four turned to two
from one little second.