It’s a blustery autumn day and as billows of leaves sail past my office window, I muse over this season of dissolution. The riotous growth of field and forest that distinguishes the growing season in my corner of creation is in terminal decay. Hostas have turned to slimy puddles of mush. Only a few creamy pedals remain on gap-toothed Japanese anemones. Rosebuds rot elegantly on the stem. The earth is still, and turning cold and dark. A winter’s sleep descends.
Seasons turn, and time shifts to a lower gear. Chin on fist, I pause and listen to the white noise of blood flowing through my head. I watch storm clouds scudding by where days ago arched a canopy of leaves. The vine maples scatter their ochre litter across my garden sward. I draw inward, downward, gathering strength of soul and limb. The coil tightens before it's released. Winter's silhouette will soon burst into bloom. Life will win. The light of the world will not be overcome by darkness.