Seasons Change

Seasons. I don’t know that I like that word a whole lot these days. There’s too much promise and reasonable expectations attached to it. And repetition. At least when we’re slinging it about in regard to segments of our lives. It’s all hindsight poetic ish, or midst of hardship hooey to make us feel better about now because now isn’t forever. What if–and you may want to grab some pearls to clutch here–what if we just let now be now and let that be enough for us, for now. Hell, it’s lit er al ly all we have. So, it might as well be enough, or good enough, for now at the very least.

I guess I’m thinking of contentment, but it’s slathered in longing. Two things can occupy the same space when it’s metaphorical, you know. I cling to the reality “this too shall pass,” but I’m done with the cycle of seasons defining the passage of my life as though the dying away always leads to the death of a thing, which then leads to the life of another and back again. Blistering summers and blustering winters. Spring and fall grow shorter each time round, and I’m supposed to just be okay with that.

Well, I’m not okay.

I want dried leaves to fall like snowflakes on any given Sunday. Breaths of fresh air should always escape visible in the crisp of night. The heat should wilt one just enough for refreshing in the gentle wind weaving through wildflowers. Wish flowers and moss and crunching twigs should be littered with butterflies as hail falls in buckets. I’d like the sea air to reach the peaks of mountains one didn’t need to first ascend, too.

Maybe this is my first summer.






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