WITH THE SEASONS

I found ways to hold myself still and permanent,
pretending not to notice  what the stillness in me meant.
I gathered what I found until remained no space unfilled
by my famished memories that with the seasons stilled.                                                                               

What of the one who wonders whence new seasons echo from?
What of the one still pondering those seasons left undone?
There lies no peace in wishing for past seasons lost to me.
There lives, however, something more. New seasons yet to be.