Observations, Poetry, prose, quiet, Seasons, Solitude

Longing For Autumn.

Longing for Autumn

Summer has arrived and I am longing for the Autumn Season. Each day grows longer in its strange, lazy heat, making me wistful. Thinking of cooler evenings, of colors faded from the overexposure of prolonged direct light. I miss the cool shadows, the early drawing of night.

I realize now it has been the Summer Season that has watched me grow older each year. The Summers that rushed to peak each Fourth of July then swooned, only for a moment, before they began their wane. Summers that were, in the days of my youth, too short. How I dreaded the coming of Autumn then and itchy, constricting, school clothes, and homework. Seemingly endless cold weather and rain that kept me confined inside, bored to distraction. I longed for Summer, for games of hide nโ€™ seek until ten oโ€™clock at night, water fights and running to catch the ice cream truck. Barefoot, sunburned, swimming anywhere we could all day long, no worries. Suspended in the air the smell of warm, bleached plastic wading pools, lawn chairs, and squirt guns. Summer, once synonymous with freedom, has come to drag on to remind me that I am not in my own Summer anymore. Summer now only serves to make me nostalgic for the Summer days of years past. Nostalgic for the Summers of six-packs, dirt roads, fast cars, and first loves, when I was still immortal.

The arrival of these long days, sometimes I think I wish I could run away down a time tunnel, fly out the end on the rope of a tire swing over a swimming hole, let go with a Tarzan yell. Summer now is tending the tomato plants, trying to reclaim the yard from the torrent of Spring after the grip of Winter. Summer nowโ€ฆstill goes by too fast. Summer, is marking time. Summer now is more powerful than it ever was in my youth, leaving me yearning for life. Summer now means, is it June already? The start of Summer and I, am longing for Autumn, the Season that is mine.

Autumn yellow turning, burning gold, then crimson. Not fresh and green but glorious in her fire, fantastic in her fade. Autumn, the season of a woman full-grown, matured, experienced, bringing to bear her bounty to share from her full gardens and fields, from the seeds of all her Summers, setting a table for the Feast of All Saints. Arms open wide, her sky illuminated with her glowing eye Moon. Now, I think I sometimes wish my Autumnโ€™s would last forever, still able to manage a graceful waltz at a Harvest Dance, gently smiling. Her light not as flashy as Summer but the smolder of steady warmth, retaining all the memories, of a life well lived.


from, Gold Mine