You are not who you were, my friend, 
 nor who you'll be. For this is mortal 
 life: this field of time, this flow of 
 seasons, both of heart and heat. Although 
 we one time ran as though freed from both 
 the snow and the womb, we slowed to feel 
 the heat, and watch the others, young, but 
 growing; we welcomed autumn as a relief, then 
 lived to see and feel the cold, that most 
 predictable and surprising of our enemies. 
 And while the spring and summer of you 
 Still live, it is only when you are inside, 
 Beside the fire, that you can feel enough 
 Residual warmth to fully recall what it felt like. 

You are not who you were, nor me, nor anyone else: 
 But there is beauty in all of it, so long as 
 We do not require any season to be like any other.