Seasons Fleeting

Days are terminal sequences, brief and inevitably lost to the fate of science and time. In this realm, this surface of gravitational limits, we bind ourselves to the moments that we know shall come to pass. The seasons, as they arise, birth from the earth as a Phoenix would emerge from a flame kindled by ash. We, as humans, give chase to the Autumn leaves, but rake ourselves into a pool of ice when we fall through the emergence of the Winter that seemed to have been closer to yesterday than it is to tomorrow.