The Quiet Circle

A seed will fall, the tree will rise,

Then reach its arms toward open skies.

It sheds its leaves, it bows with grace—

And finds renewal in its place.

The river flows, it never stays,

Yet carves its truth through countless days.

It does not mourn what drifts away—

It only moves, come what may.

The breath we take is not our own,

It came from stars, from dust and bone.

We borrow time, we borrow light—

Then pass it on into the night.

The flower blooms, then fades from view,

Its petals lost in morning dew.

But from that fall, a new life grows—

And so the silent cycle flows.

There is no start, there is no end—

Just change, just flow, just fold and bend.

To cling is pain, to grasp is fear—

But peace will come to those who clear.

A moment lived, a moment gone,

Each breath a bell, a passing song.

The now is all we truly own—

The rest is shadow, dust, unknown.

So let us sit, and sip the tea,

Accept what is, and simply be.

For in this stillness we may find—

The world is kind when we are kind.