The Cycle

The wind brushes the needles of the spruce,

the rye grass waves gently toward the sun

setting slowly in the west

The chorus begins

Do they not fear the eternal loss of light?

Or do they know there shall be a morning sun anew

bringing with it the promise of a new day,

in a small cycle of time, the micro within the macro

our lives are like the day,

arise with the morning and drink deeply the aroma of juniper in twilight.

October 20, 2000