Why do the geese fly south,
Through never-ending seasons,
Only to fly north again?
I cannot comprehend the rhythms of life,
Like making a bed,
Only to have it messed up again.
Perhaps the rhythms, like an endless tide,
Or waves that ebb and flow, go “left” and “right”,
Give glory to God, in every season.
We need a rhyme; we need a reason.
We need the heat, the cold — if I may be so bold.
We need the peace of winter freezing,
The new spring buds our nostrils teasing,
The summer heat, and frenzied days,
That turn to autumn — the harvest phase.
The work, the play, exhaustion, rest,
The climax, quiet, the tears, the jest,
The hardship, ease, the stress, the peace,
Success and failure; they never cease.
Up and down, pride and shame,
Through it all, our God’s the same,
And every breath we ever take,
He watches tirelessly, for our sake.
clarakatalin 
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