The Season’s Change

Change is the most surreal season – 

that subtle shift from greeny bloom

to landscapes of ripe apple isles

that flourish and fall

in that small space

when winds sigh the summer’s last balmy breath.

 

The grip of cold – 

that chilly fist

that claws and cleaves

at life’s warmth inside –

the clung-memories we preserve, to drive on.

 

When is that moment?

What is that time when

our season has passed?

What is that moment?

And why have I never really held it?

But simply noticed it, flowing nearer,

or remember it blowing away as crumpled leaves.

 

The ice thaws.

With time, all frost fades,

like it will freeze again,

and again,

on until the end.

Whenever that moment is.

Whatever that realization might be.

 

But for now, it shifts

back into bounty

and flavorful flourish

as if gifted by God himself

or some force of force – 

something that wills change.

 

Whoever that is.

 

That change is a moment

of relative might,

that comes and goes

along with the flow.

 

It is a realization.

A shift in our being

that we come to accept

or let the shifting season

freeze us to death

until we thaw once again.

 

Whenever that change might be.

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