There is a song that is sung on summer mornings
Fresh with warm, yeasty dew
Breaking forth over grasses and colored leaves
Tiny drinks for tiny insects
Manna for sustenance.
Nothing is forgotten
No one left behind.
Reminders of our place in the newness.
A path not traveled, and one familiar
Lay their tracks among the greens and browns
Beckoning onward the dance of life
Circular. Without end.
Except our steps
Be they numbered here
And yet eternal
Following in the mist of those who have walked before
A never ending story
With infinite possibilities
Nothing is new and nothing is old
Under the sun
All is well, all is well.
The day marches forward.
Until death do us part.
Madison Richards lives and writes in New York. When she's not enjoying the summer sun, she sometimes blogs, and can be found at The Master's Artist every other Tuesday. Except when she forgets, like last time :)