No one mourns the glory of the sky,
with its play of light and air and water,
that it is forever transforming from what it is
into what it is.
Indeed, it makes no sense to gaze longingly at a rose,
Grieving the inevitable falling of its petals.
No one fears the crashing of the waves,
Nor the melting of the snow,
Nor the setting of the sun,
Nor the passing of the breeze.

It only makes sense to not fear the Changes.

When you are so afraid of losing what you had,
the tenderness, the passion, the side-long glances, and the knowing smiles from the one who understands,
When you are so afraid of what is happening,
the confusion and aggravation, the sorrow and anger,
Every minor attackable issue exploited for a moment of attention and consolation,
You are only breaking yourself into pieces,
unrecognizable and infuriating,
down, into that ever-darkening spiral.

You are only digging your nails into your own forearms;
You are only darkening your own mind,
pulling grey clouds over yourself
when you are grasping and groping
to push them away,
falsely assuming there are any clouds at all.