It is the Season

It is the season of sleeping late while dreaming of red-orange trees shuddering in the evening breeze. These are the short days when the thirst for warmth suborns desire and Eros kisses summer love goodnight. It is the season of crimson sunsets pouring slowly, like thick molasses, over church steeples and frozen riverbeds. When snow-pregnant clouds float lazily across flower-less meadows and lovers seek shelter beneath heavy quilts. It is the season of naked trees, with branches like fingers extending toward the setting sun, tracing delicate arches across the rose autumn sky. Those days when the blackbird flies southward into the night beneath crystal constellations. It is the season of surrender, when burdens, like the yellowing leaves, fall silently to the frozen earth and tired bones warm themselves before tended fires. It is the season of dying in the palm of God’s hand; comforted in the knowledge of spring’s resurrection.