Nothing lasts. No matter how hard we hold onto it, it always slides through our fingers and spills away. The largest part of the human condition is reconciling with the inevitability of death. Life has its seasons. When we are born, the seed of ourself is planted and we slowly set down the roots of our soul into the ground of our flesh. With our coming adulthood there is a knowing and the spring of our life passes. We all recover from this fall in our own way; beginning the struggle that comes with the understanding that we will die. Time passes and our leaves turn to yellow. They fall away, taking little pieces of our history with them. We can only hope that someone takes note of their passing and carry a few of those leaves with in them. When the winter snows come and cover us over, we know that our final season has come; for none of us are allowed a second spring. We envy the trees that. After the winter, we are buried or burned and all that is left is the decay and the memories that others hold. The fragile colored leaves that we spread about us. Our mark fades and from us grows another generation. Another coming of spring that we will never know and yet will remain as a small part of it. For the newly growing things always set their roots in the parting and decaying winter losses.