Fall is upon us. Monday, September 23rd, marks the first day of autumn.
Summer’s done. Winter is coming. The bridge between the two is burning as brightly as the fiery reds, oranges, and yellows prominently displayed by the trees.
The life I know is ending. I sense it in my bones. I expect the darkness shooting through my veins, desensitizing my nerves in anticipation of numbness brought on by the icy needles of winter.
I am done with activities in the sun. Wintry blasts of air will force us indoors to while away the long nights. We rest for tomorrow’s dwindling daylight from a sun now living below the horizon. It has gone to where the birds fly for their seasonal retreat.
Life dwindles. Fields of grain change hue from green to brown as they await the fall harvest. Soon the picturesque outdoors take on monochromatic hues of old-fashioned sepia prints. The palette of living things pales.
Seeds rest below earth’s surface for the coming cycle of growth — months of ice and snow away. I return to projects I had put aside for the summer. I will now encourage my growth indoors; I no longer have to tend to my garden. Outside I die. Inside, I’ll become newly born.
I have to end this life. It has become a song sung too many times. I must write new lyrics. I have to play a new tune. I will become a new song. I will be a robin in the dead of winter. I will sing of light before the dawn breaks. I can taste the warm breezes of summer. Life ends. Then it changes.