The rhubarb plants fall back into the earth.
Bluets and daisies fall back too.
The moon rises in the east and sets in the west.
And one or two leaves on the maple tree brighten like a livid fire.
So the days pass.
So the seasons pass.
Our bodies grow old and die.
There is no grief in what happens naturally, she says.
There is no sadness because there is no ending.
At the deepest levels - in the subtlest of understandings - nothing ends, nothing begins.
Chickens scratch through yesterday's compost.
Robins fly over singing.
Only complete independence from circumstance assures happiness.
It is both easier and harder than it seems.
She urges me to greater honesty, asking: what do you want?
Answer quickly or else it's a lie!
When I adopt the stance of a monk, she laughs.
When I refuse to speak, she chucks me gently on the shoulder.
The river is your teacher, she says.
For it simply goes as it must, singing.