Everything dies, yet birth comes
in equal measure, if not more abundantly.
We have to wait years for apples
after planting the tree, watching
summer leaves die and fall,
winter’s bareness too, before spring’s
buds. All the time, the tree grows.
Winter’s death no hindrance, but
necessity for strength to bear fruit.
Even the fallen apples, uneaten,
carry new life within them.
Everything dies and is born.
Hold it all tenderly, lightly.