On Seasons

Autumn,

Oh, season of scarves,

and cold toes,

wind-nipped nose and earthy tones.

When the sun sits heavy

on the horizon, leaves blown like

little chariots, rapidly dying, a race

to the end

the inevitable. Oh Autumn,

season of the slow

twisting descent to the final

snow-laden season, when bare branches

bring a glittering magic, bright and cold.

Spring, oh eternal optimist—blooms.

Summer is humid, heavy with life, dripping.

But now it is deep

and dark, more

of a lack than anything. Lack of

daylight

or time

or will

or maybe life. Brittle, really.

Crackling of leaves underfoot, all

dressed in their old finery; maroon

copper bronze gold yellow mustard

burnished and maybe tarnished but…

lovely. Gone, perhaps.

Not yet

forgotten.

They scuff in clouds around my ankles,

begging

please stay.

Not yet irrelevant.

More than a nuisance.

A reminder. A plea.

A crackle

underfoot

like a crackling fire, bursts of

warmth and color, flashing in front of my tired eyes,

reflecting in his, a shining reminder

that it’s not always cold. Everything is

bright inside, colors are nearer here

while it’s dim outside.

A touch so gentle, merely skimming

but enough

to raise chills.

My life is not spring.

But neither am I locked

into ice, eyelashes frosted with

flakes and freezing lips, blue and white

and lilac skin and fleeting dreams

and pale skies.

There is beauty in the chill,

a promise in the barren

and hope yet to be found

in the tarnished glories.

Burnished, antiqued and perhaps

full of life

more than anything.

Oh Autumn,

do stay a while,

season of frosty fingers

and shivering shoulders

and a wet chill in the bones.

A lesson in the leaves:

That we are learning how

to be here and nothing more. This

is only temporary. But beautiful.

Season of heavy trees

and rosy cheeks

of close skies

and fallen leaves,

may your reminders of ends

bring the promise of beginnings.

The sun sits heavy,

but that only brings it closer

to my eager hands.

Truly,

Hopeful