Being of a Sense

… that I take no delight in shorter days and longer nights. My challenge is: How shall I portray this, be okay with this?

Did you hear the sight that I saw, said I,
In the painter’s prose and the poet’s eye?
Was it a rumor of sleep in the earth hidden deep,
Or a tangible tint of autumn come nigh?

An unseen voice whispered in a thundering tone,
What has once come about must now go home.

The landscape will soon sport its fall attire. Valleys of gold and hills of fire.
Spirals of leaves whirl across the street and acorns crunch beneath our feet.
Summer succumbs to winter’s firm grasp. Autumn is life’s last colorful gasp.

I can taste it with my tongue and feel it on my nose.
Soon silence will reign as the North wind blows.

I can’t rearrange nature’s change. Accept and flow or challenge and grow.
The choice is upon me.
Pass the months in monotony or find another way to see.

Having lived in the South many years of my life,
This change in seasons has caused me strife…yet I know,
I am who I am no matter where I go.

Eternal summer can dull my edge
.Complacency sets in; can’t sharpen my axe on a tropical wind.
Let my grindstone be a cold discontent. Winter winds sharpen. Energy’s spent.

Come spring and summer’s warm days and nights
I’ll find my being of a sense renewed, sharpened, and bright.

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