The same view in three seasons.
The Rising of the Light
There is no imagining the new vista revealed with the rise of any given dawn. Each sunrise more I am granted, my heart moves outward, touching every blade of grass and dew drop and snow flake and whisper of wind through the limbs in the sheltering trees.
My human heart pulses within the great maternal breast of the earth and thereafter belongs to the rhythm of seasons. Above the line of earth rises the moon,
the sun's great shafts of light rushing inward
and I effortlessly witness the mystery.
I do not know how I came to be - I do not know my creator, nor the creator of the shining earth, nor understand what substance time may be. While I exist, I celebrate the rising of the light, the rising of the light.