Seasons of birth and
death, hard to tell them apart,
sometimes. rain feeds, and

birds sing in winter skies, and forage on the barren ground.

Some seasons, the journey is shrouded in fog, but you make your way forward using whatever light you can find.

Other seasons, the light is so bright, it blinds.

May this be for you
a season of bird songs and
clear melodies, seeds

of peace.

© Christine Salkin Davis, 2019.


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