Life is a process, a plan we create, a seed in a garden, a desired fate. We till and we toil, we watch and we wait, feeding the soil, marking the date.
Then storms come and ravage the seedlings in night, that which we’ve nurtured is festered with blight. All that we’ve made, all that was dreamed, washes away in unforseen stream.
Yet life is a process; we begin anew. Preparing to plant with morning dew. Lost dreams don’t deter, failed plans dissipate; we chase visions again, no reason to wait.
At last seeds take hold then sprout from the ground, in the still of the night with nary a sound. What we envisioned begins to arise, palpable, powerful, in front of our eyes.
Far from the end, we continue to work, watering, weeding, as trouble still lurks. With each active day that we stay resolute, little by little our dreams spread their roots.
One morn’ we awake, spreading a smile: the harvest has come, though it’s taken awhile. The bloom of the flower, the fruit of the seed, for one fleeting hour that’s all that we need.
Our dreams are alive, we see that they’re real, nothing compares to the feeling we feel. But soon it is gone, replaced by late shade; then darkness shrouds all that we’ve made.
For dreams never last, harvest’s only a season. The planning and planting is what gives us reason. No matter the outcome, no matter the day, through working and waiting we find peace on the way.