The winter is coming and I sweep out the dry bones of leaves and blooms, once alive and so full of expectation. Some are half-bloomed, still daring to hope. It was a good run—We had a good season, the pinks and reds began subtle, then bright. They leapt to life with enthusiasm. Then, grew and stretched up, loving the hell out of everything.
And now everything on my patio is tidy and neat. I sit in my chair by the window with the cool breeze stirring through the windows, open now where once they closed against the summer haze. I haven’t fully seen the beauty of it, this dying season. I still want the pinks and reds and the greens of new growing. I haven’t quite lost the hope that things can be more than they are, whether it be the season, or the hope that there might be, for me, another shining dream just beyond the horizon.
This is the season of intermingled youth and age and it has always left me wistful. It is the time of year, where the two dance together while moving in opposite directions. One looks forward and the other back, but for the moment, they move together hand in hand.
Joan Donati's Books 