For Every Rose There Is a Separate Spring

For every rose there is a separate spring.
Orange leaves drift down through separate falls.
Rivers dream their dreams while willows weep,
Though none can tell what beauty it recalls.
Years drain the memories to which we cling.

So do we dance within our separate bubbles
Even as we share a common breeze,
Viewing through a fragile film of troubles
Each miracle a frightened heart might seize,
Nor dare we touch its stillness, vast and deep.