I love the Autumn season, when sweet death is in the air.
Not the kind that brings pain and sorrow,
nor the kind that brings despair;
but that which points to something, beautiful not yet there.
Winter is stark and lovely, but it’s simple in its being.
Powerful yet one dimensional,
it keeps you from really seeing.
It roars, it bites, it freezes you, into a place that is not freeing.
The bloom of Spring echoes hope, ending Winter’s attacks.
But like a child lost too soon,
It ends leaving you taken aback.
It’s promises are empty, because of the dual nature it lacks.
The sunny Summer season starts with an unbridled sense of fun.
But it’s ephemeral and fleeting,
a distraction that’s swiftly done.
Short-lived and quickly over, even before it has really begun.
At the estuary of death and life, Autumn beckons from its throne.
Calling us simultaneously,
to resignation and spontaneity;
to experience the familiar,
and to ponder the unknown.
Autumn weaves a tapestry, making beautiful nature’s end.
Reminding us that death isn’t bad,
despite the life we may have had;
and the realization,
that endings are not an end.
Autumn stirs something deeply that we can’t put into words.
Delight, joy, pain and sorrow,
mixed with the promise of tomorrow.
Unknown to the senses,
but our heart knows what it’s heard
Thus Autumn holds a promise that speaks deeply to our soul.
Melancholia mixed with sadness,
yielding paradoxical gladness.
Opening our hearts,
to all the things that make us whole.