I was inspired by my 6-year-old niece’s poem above, to write this:

And yet
all things – every thing – must die.
Each “now” moment, like a courageous snowflake falling,
dies in the warmth of the glistening sun to become river,
lake,
food for trees,
nectar of all life,
cool oasis for the weary traveler.

Dies to become cloud,
to harden again
and then let go,
falling through icy layers,
cold rush of wind,
carried on wings of surrender,
landing on mountain canopies
softly, silently,
not knowing,
not even asking to know,
where flight and flow and melt
and vapor and drink and rush
and burbling over rocky creeks
and plummeting over walls of granite
impossibly high
and cascades of foam and mist,
will take it.

Each snowflake dies,
finally reaching a gathering place,
a pool so still, so clear, so precise in its reflection.
We go closer, wanting to touch it.
The water rests, breathes.
Once we contact it, the image dissolves,
Becomes something else –
something we are now part of.
We are in it. No longer looking at,
but being in.
Now we feel
the cool tingling against our skin,
the bumps of the round stones under our feet,
the movement of the water, accommodating
every shape without hesitation.
We hear the sound of the stillness.
We reach in, perhaps wanting to taste it.
Realize we are not so different,
not so separate from this pool,
which traveled from heights we cannot now see
or maybe even imagine,
from a cloud,
a mountaintop,
a snowflake,
to be here right now.

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