Where the Years Grow Gentle

The season drifts through me like an old companion,
bringing a fragrance carried from forgotten hills,
where rain gathered among fern and heather
and every path promised another measure of wonder.

My heart keeps company with distant valleys,
finding delight where rivers polish their own song
through endless patience.
Each current bears memory,
each turning speaks of years
that rested beneath changing skies.

Far above, a solitary bird writes its slow passage
across the blue,
its cry falling over open country
until every silence grows rich enough
to shelter longing.
I stand beneath that vastness,
feeling time loosen its careful hold,
feeling yesterday soften into something
closer to mercy than sorrow.

There were seasons of fierce desire,
hours consumed by ambitions
that scattered like smoke across dawn.
Now another wisdom rises,
slow as moonrise,
steady as the faithful turning
of constellations no soul could ever claim.

Love survives through such endurance.
It waits inside forgotten lanes,
among fern, moss, and rain,
inside every forgotten promise
still searching for its own completion.

The world offers neither triumph nor defeat forever.
It grants passage,
then another horizon,
then another chance
to gather grace from modest moments
until every breath carries gratitude,
and every farewell opens
toward a country still unseen,
where hope walks beside memory,
each sustaining the other
through the endless pilgrimage of the spirit.