No book is really worth reading at the age of ten which is not equally – and often far more – worth reading at the age of fifty and beyond.
~ C.S. Lewis in OF OTHER WORLDS
Life and death,
a twisted vine sharing a single root
A water bright green
stretching to top a twisted yellow
only to wither itself
as another green unfolds overheard.
One leaf atop another
yet under the next,
a vibrant tapestry of arcs and falls
all in the act of becoming.
Death is the passing of life.
And life
is the stringing together of so many
little passings.