From where I am, the tilt of this ball we’re on is leading into darkness.
The light fades just a little each day.
And somehow in the long golden summer I’ve forgotten the darkness. I forgot the biting cold and the ice.
Some leaves are declaring their exodus in bright displays, but many simply ghosted down; brown and too dry, the leaves lost the struggle to hold on in the face of summer’s grip this year. And the bare branches, too, tap into the memory of winter.
Like no other change, the shift into autumn feels like an ending. Spring into Summer is exuberant. Winter into Spring is a mad wrestling of life bursting outward. Autumn into Winter is hunkering down, a tightening grip of cold. But Summer into Autumn is death.
And when I walk home in the shifting twilight, I see folks in their gardens, planting bulbs. And I think, “How beautifully hopeful that is.”