I played in spring, sowing dreams across the landscape, dancing beneath burgeoning blossoms. With my heart affixed to an imaginary future, I invited the rain to soak me to the bone, applauding thunder and lightning as if storms were imaginary friends.
I ran in summer, diligently tending the dreams of a lifetime. Deepening my ancestors' roots, I struggled to endure storms, mended broken branches, and grew in faith and tenacity. Collecting colorful memories of withering blossoms, I whiled away the afternoons, anxious for Indian summer.
I prayed in autumn, giving thanks for a golden harvest, tasting the fruit of summer's imagination. Deepening my spirit's roots, I observed life's intimate perfection, threw dreams onto passing clouds, and took refuge from storms in the arms of a friend's compassion.
I rested in winter, marveling at the brevity of life, replaying black and white memories of burgeoning blossoms. With my heart affixed to an imaginary past, I admired the equanimity of life, gave thanks for the steadfastness of spirit, and brushed the snow from my face as I huddled by a fire of hope for heaven's spring.