All of us are friends in death; so why be enemies in life?
Rich & poor or them & us, no one exists without strife.
We must enter & leave this life all alone & if fortunate, we’re not in between.
Winter will come, as the seasons do change, but we strive for bon temps in the green.
Though color will drain, as leaves in the fall, we celebrate harvest’s change.
X marks the day, the almanac round, as we celebrate seasonal range.
Many decry the new or unknown, from the fear of life’s variations.
Ignorant are they that the normal they know is the product of eons’ mutations.
Enjoy the journey, the fun & the fear; we return to the black in a blink.
We’re agents of living from beginning to end; but departure is written in ink.
L.B.Stowe 