Oct 2017
I hope you remember me as your favorite hour of your favorite season.
Maybe it's dawn of a spring day, the new morning light glistening through dew drops on green grass springing forth and flowers just beginning to bud.
Maybe it's a fall evening, a slight breeze arousing fresh fallen leaves, choreographing a dance that is at once bursting with life and also a solemn epitaph.
Maybe it's a winter day, soft snow brighter it seems than the sun itself, falling slowly and covering the world in a soft embrace, both cautious and beautiful.
Maybe it's a summer night, stars patiently emerging one by one through a clear sky, whispering of the humble vastness of all that is.
Do not let me be a face or a name, but a feeling, returning to you once again, each year.
Maybe it's dawn of a spring day, the new morning light glistening through dew drops on green grass springing forth and flowers just beginning to bud.
Maybe it's a fall evening, a slight breeze arousing fresh fallen leaves, choreographing a dance that is at once bursting with life and also a solemn epitaph.
Maybe it's a winter day, soft snow brighter it seems than the sun itself, falling slowly and covering the world in a soft embrace, both cautious and beautiful.
Maybe it's a summer night, stars patiently emerging one by one through a clear sky, whispering of the humble vastness of all that is.
Do not let me be a face or a name, but a feeling, returning to you once again, each year.
