Weaving

It starts not with a bang, but with a breath,
A fragile,borrowed moment, facing death
And life at once.A cry against the light,
A journey starting in the softest night.

The path winds on through fields of sunlit grace,
Where dandelion wishes fill the space.
Then,sudden turns to shadow, steep, and stone,
Where you feel utterly,completely alone.

You'll gather loves like wildflowers in your hand,
And feel no force on earth could ever stand
Against such joy.Then watch them drift away,
As seasons change and colors turn to grey.

You'll build your towers, bold against the blue,
With dreams so vivid,they feel always true.
A storm will come,the walls will sway and crack,
Leaving you to build,and not look back.

There will be feasts of laughter, rich and deep,
And hungry winters where you mourn and weep.
There will be victories whispered,not proclaimed,
And silent,valiant battles, never named.

So let the current take you, hold you fast,
Embrace the present,future, and the past.
For life's not in the keeping,but the flow,
In every ending,something starts to grow.

It is the scar, the smile, the peace, the strife,
The messy,brilliant, ache of being alive.