Secrets buried in the sand hold

hidden memories of lives gone by.

Unearthed remains tell a story.

Dug up pottery paint a picture.

Lives in the past merge with the future.

Differences become insignificant.

Time becomes transient.

The cycle begins again.

Days flow into weeks.

Weeks into years.

Years to centuries.

Centuries fly by.

Nothing is new.

The cycle continues.

Our past becomes our future.

Until the sands of time bury our existence.

Then our future becomes our past.

And the cycle begins again.



Sherbrooke Forest | By Penny Whetton



The trees have been hurt,

Scarred by the recent storm.

Their leaves have fallen,

Fallen soldiers of nature’s war.

Without a proper burial,

No one will mourn for them.

New leaves will soon sprout

And take their place.

The cycle will continue

Through time and space.



Sherbrooke Forest | By Penny Whetton

The tree has been hurt.

Scarred by the storm.

Its leaves have fallen.

Fallen soldiers of war.

Without a proper burial.

Who will mourn them?

The fallen of nature.

The tree will mourn

their loss.

Until new leaves sprout

to take their place.

And the cycle continues.