There is a balance in this world that is deeper than the penetration of the eye, works to the last hour of the day, can thrive in all the places the sun doesn’t reach, continues to the very boundaries of the earth; where the wind suddenly stops and where the Moon beams cannot penetrate. It glows in all the darkest places, exists in all the solitude of time, it creates something of all the nothing, and breathes the frost of nevermore and exhales the fiery breath of the always forever.
And through the balmy months of spring, it points its glowing finger towards the sky and sends a drying wind raining towards the ground. It flutters the petals of the newborn foliage, taking its allure away with it, leaving a scorched kiss instead. And the grass will die, and the clouds will dehydrate until they are wispy ghosts, and the heat will shake the sky, and the world will look baked. And time will hold his breath.
Until the balance of the world blows out an icy tale. And the leaves, crisp from summer, will shed their dying hulls and scuttle down the path of time as shells of the once were. And when it seems like time has forgotten us, it exhales. Balance stares upon us with a doting warmth and the igneous gale of rebirth falls over the land like a tidal wave.
But Balance must always rear its head, it will blaze the Eden once more. And from this we see, Balance’s promise is true; the calmness in the world is gone with morning’s dew.
*authored April 3, 2021