Moving the Mountains

Patterns

There is a pattern.
A winding and twisting and mystical pattern; combining and connecting, long and short.
But a pattern, nothing less, nothing more.
I have seen it in the trees, the way they sway, in their leaves as they fall.
I have seen it in the water, splashing and calmly rippling, disturbed and calm.
I have seen it in the sky, the clouds that pass over, or the lack of the latter, it is there beneath the sun and the moon, below the stars and galaxies above.
The pattern is here, and everywhere, and we ponder it daily, always seeing but never understanding.
The cycle of life, causation and outcome. The pattern that the world will forever turn on. It's fascination drives us to live forever but die eventually. Rotting, preserved by memories, until the last person speaks our name, we never truly die, we live on inside this pattern.