Each day is one of unpredictability,
a meaningless forecast of the weather's
facade, too volatile to contemplate
in the midst of the browning leaves.

The hillsides, covered in a verdant green,
ripple above the river's trickling surface,
rising to the right and sinking to the left,
a cardiograph caressing a decaying heart.

It is most difficult to withstand the droughts
of summer, hastily transitioning to the blizzards
of winter before falling as the drops of Springtime
rain; even autumn at times can bring a bitter chill.

Yet the key is to take each day one at a time,
a solemn refusal to glance at climatic uncertainty,
but instead a gentle acceptance of life's sporadicity
and the fluctuating differences each morning presents.