The Cycles of Life

Cycles. A repeated sequence of events. The sun rises in the Eastern sky as a raging fireball, then sets softly, shimmering in the West. The moon and stars dance through the night altering shapes, position and glow. The egg, larvae, caterpillar and finally the delicate, brightly colored butterfly flutters then alights on a burnt-orange rose in the garden. Seasons pass. One flows not so seamlessly into another. No defining point in time where one ends and one begins except for an arbitrary date presupposed by the movement of Old Sol himself.

Life. Cyclical like the seasons. Soothing rains nourish the earth as the babe springs from the womb amidst lush green grass, the blooms of flowers, fruits and vegetables and leaves that clothe the barren trees. Forest critters emerge from their winter sleep sipping cool, clear water from a stream.

As the season turns, a warm gentle breeze whispers through the trees, tickling the leaves . The babe grows, walking now, marveling at the beauty unfolding before him or her. Clear blue skies cover fields of green clover accentuated by the heady scent of bright crimson and chrome yellow blossoms pointing towards the heavens.

Yet, the heat menaces the babe and without the aid of artificial sustenance the babe and the less hearty, more fragile foliage wilt. The merciless sun beats down as the babe toils in the garden, mopping the brow drenched with sweat, weeding, trying in vain to protect that prize tomato plant. The sky turns a yellow-grey; humid; stagnant. The winds provide no relief only acting as if a fan was placed at the door of a blast furnace. When the rains finally emerge, they are of little help. The rain runs off the parched, cracked, rutted earth. Storms brew in the darkened sky wreaking havoc on the babe and those around.

Then the days change to a bearable cool and the nights an exhilarating chill. All is fine; all is good. The landscape takes on the appearance of an artist's palette. Reds, oranges, yellows and soft browns everywhere. A beautiful ride through the countryside. The babe sits: complacent; docile; dreaming of days past, both good and bad, sipping wine at the vineyard. Until the wind turns to a moan and a cold rain stings the face racking it with pain. Leaves fly from the trees in all directions as if they were shot from a cannon. Colors give way to a dark, foreboding sky. Squirrels search for food then hasten to their nests. Birds take flight seeking a more friendly clime.

The final season of the cycle is at hand. The wind howls then roars. No one, nothing, can escape the wrath of its sub-zero grip.. The barren trees bend, shivering covered with an icy glaze. A pristine white mantle of snow covering the landscape turns to a grayish slush. Movement is slow. Aches and pains grow. Tears flow only to freeze on the cheek, hanging as icicles. The body loses life giving warmth. In a box of pine the babe rests his head. Sleeping silent in his new found bed. Covered now by a blanket of dirt. Removed not only from joy, but also any hurt.