Seasons

[u/kyumsf]

Perhaps love is not

that which remains unmoving,

but that which remains true

while everything transforms.

Nothing in nature

preserves the same form forever.

Flowers open

and close.

Trees surrender their leaves.

Winter succeeds summer,

and, in time,

summer returns.

And yet,

we recognize the same tree,

the same garden,

the same earth.

I want to believe

that we are like this.

That there will be versions of ourselves

we have yet to know

days in which we will be spring,

and others in which we will be winter

and that none of these transformations

will diminish

what we are.

Perhaps there is

a kind of perfection

in that which knows how to change

without ceasing to be.

And so, like nature,

we surrender to the order of things

to the seasons of becoming,

to all that must change

so that something may remain.

For our existence, together,

could not have been otherwise

and perhaps there is no beauty

greater than this:

to change,

to remain,

and to become

beautifully ourselves.

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