A Change of Seasons

Life can mirror seasons. The ebb and flow of lives around events and the people in our orbit. Where seasons are somewhat predictable, life often changes roads without warning.

Storms pop up with straight-line winds where a nice gentle breeze would have puffed up the opening flowers.

As the years blend into one year indistinguishable from the last, a late winter can burn into summer heat, bypassing the waning winds of April.

Life is filled with days that disappear like the reflective center-line in the rear view mirror on a night highway. Three straight days of rain are like hundreds of miles of flat landscape with no horizon.

One year I took a trip without the appropriate clothing. I made do but froze the entire week. Like a fish, I jumped out of the pond and into a fast-moving creek. Swept away, nothing catchy to cling, no quiet pockets away from the torrent. No safe harbor. I couldn’t wait for that trip to end, to say goodbye and take flight. Unprepared and on the wrong side of the barometer.

One day I was shoveling snow from the driveway, the next grass clippings from the freshly-cut lawn. Somewhere in the middle, events rained down, evaporating or collecting in the curb drain, but nowhere in sight.

In the quietest, reflective pools, the sun circles the globe in giant loops. If it weren’t for the clouds drifting through the heavens interrupting the sun god, one chapter would lead to the next.  Page numbers are like yard markers, reminding me of the calendar flipping past.

Another day the sky turns black and the winds blow through my life. Anything not held down is scattered into wreckage, the debris field revealing of all things past, but no future view.

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This particular week squeaked like a fast-moving guitar fretboard, the days made very little sense until the refrain dropped into the melody and I knew I’d been this way before. I could climb my way up through the ascending notes, leaping mightily through the treble until I grabbed the staff and came to rest.

This rock’s rotation is wobbly. Fueled by our fascination with fuel, buried deep, warming the sky and melting the ice plains.  The bees are scared, fishes eat plastic and nature is angry. We’re very bad tenants, we excuse our poor manners and don’t pay our bills. As winter approaches and shelter is needed, there will be no room at the inn.


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