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The cherry blossoms floated down gaily through the chill morning air, settling upon the small shrine by the side of the country lane. The peasant kneeling there did not see the beauty as he presented his offering of a seed and said "For the promise of a future, which may or may not be." Then he mumbled the rest of his prayers, quickly raised himself, and returned to his planting.
The raindrops fell through the stiffling noontime air, splashing upon the parched boards of the weed choked shrine. The peasant there paid no heed as he placed his offering of a songbird in a small cage, proclaimed "For all things must be free, even that which we cherish," then released the bird from its captivity. He finished his prayers, raised himself, and returned to his empty home.
The reddened leaves tumbled down through the setting suns rays, bouncing off the dilapidated shrine. The peasant sliced his offering, a fresh crimson apple, in two. One half he placed upon the shrine, the other half he ate, saying "For the fruits of life are great enough to share." Then he finished his prayers, used his staff to raise himself, and returned to his harvesting.
The first snowflakes, gray-white in the moonlight, drifted down from the
heavens, covering the shoulders and head of the peasant in front of the
shrine to a nearly forgotten god. A single pale rose, the last of the year,
he placed there and said, "For there is beauty in all seasons, even the last."
"I have no prayers, no petitions for intercession or grace. You have served
me well my god, and I am the last to believe in you." As he tried to rise, he
found that he could not, but it did not disturb him. As he watched the
snowflakes cover the rose upon the shrine he whispered, "One last offering,
my god. The life of a good man who loved you, on this, the final day for both
of us."
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