THE POEM
We meet people as if they are promises,
certain that if we love them enough,
they will remain exactly as we first found them.
But people are seasons disguised as forever.
We expect spring to stay:
all beginnings, all blossom,
all the tender green of hope.
Yet spring was never meant to linger,
it teaches roots how to reach.
Because some souls are spring, and spring is a lesson in becoming.
We expect summer to last:
warm hands, bright laughter,
days so full of light they seem impossible to lose.
Yet even the sun knows when to leave the sky.
Because some souls are summer, and summer is a lesson in joy.
We welcome the monsoon with longing:
for rain after drought,
for a sky finally honest enough to weep.
But rain does not ask what should stay,
it floods, it cleanses, it carries away.
Because some souls are monsoon, and monsoon is a lesson in feeling everything.
We grieve autumn for its falling:
the distance, the changes,
the quiet surrender of things once green.
Yet autumn is not the season of endings,
it is the season of truth.
Because some souls are autumn, and autumn is a lesson in release.
We fear winter for its coldness:
the empty chairs, the unanswered echoes,
the ache of what is missing.
Yet beneath the frost, life is gathering its strength.
Because some souls are winter, and winter is a lesson in endurance.
And perhaps the mistake was never their changed,
it was expecting a season to become a monument.
For people are not meant to stay the same; they are seasons, and every season leaves us changed.
