Seasons

The air seems liquid now
no rain, but damp with promises
leaves jumping off of branches
and gliding gracefully towards the pavement
barren.

More birds are coming –
their songs hollow and haunting
as they search for warmer roosts
in their winter home.
They observe impartially
and pay tribute to

what is
what isn’t
what will be

Soon it will be time to
snuggle under blankets
(we do that already despite the season, don’t we)
and create fires of
things best left in the trash
where it belongs.

We create sparks
quenching thirst
constantly looking down
new avenues and
endless possibilities.

Winter this year is not the death of the old –
it’s the birth of the new.
Something good is coming
it’s tangible, palpable in the very
air I breathe.

It’s coming and I can’t wait to
shine that light on the future
show you the hope that
binds us together.

two rings
different branches
same tree.