The trees know that when the cold comes: it’s time to turn, time to die.
And when the spring comes, they know when to bloom.
But we are left to wait with promises of new seasons on the tip of our tongues, but time is nothing to us. It could be tomorrow or it could be twenty years until we are called to change and we’ll never know when we are called to die until we’re there.
But not knowing is a way of faith and we are waiting for plans that are not our own.
So we wait.