I can feel it. Yet I fear it. I can see it. Yet I look away. Change, I watch you suspiciously: A shadowy woman with a basket, of flowers, or stones? The not knowing, frightens. Yet the fear remains irrelevant. Change will come as surely as leaves yellow, and glaciers melt into lakes of frost. So I do what I can, a brave smile, a parka for the cold. I face her determined to accept whatever she brings with patience, and grace, commingled with as much hope as I can muster. Because hope is the brightest beacon, the reason for living, the greatest thing there is.