The tall grasses and thistles drop their seeds and lay down.
They surrender like old men tired of the battle
But in doing so, reveal once again the hidden deer paths for another season.
Some of them give up their hold to the earth altogether and are released to the will of the wind. Letting the wind reshape them.
The sun becomes butterscotch, slowing us down because it’s easier on the eyes than the lemon yellow of summer.
Giving us a call to look around at the quiet brilliance of copper, gold, brown.
Colors that match the fragrance of decay and leave a bittersweet taste in one’s mouth and nostrils.
In these deaths there is a sense of life lived well and a deserved satisfaction in this closure.
Leaving a pause in which to rest.
A silence between musical notes.
In these deaths there is a renewal.
A putting away of distraction and finding, in this new solitude, a place of expectant joy.
In this pause grows the seeds of something new and unknown .
That will carry us to a brand new grassy field, green again.
E.W.Lane |
