Is it strange that this time of great beauty precedes inevitably the frost, the time of apparent death? Not that the tree corps is truly lifeless - say rather that a starker grace and fiercer outlines succeed splendor.
Where went the new growth and the flourishing of spring and summer? What travails are presaged by these swirlings and coolings?
Yet, could the knowledge of coming hardship or apparent fruitlessness be bathed in greater glory? Is there aught to warrant despair in autumnal majesty or sudden flurries?
Does not the return of golden treasure to the earth forecast a coming dawn, investing so that spring may follow frost? Indeed, it does. This is each sunset writ large, stretched from moments to fortnights.
Oh soul, wrapped in glory, resplendent within change, do not fear the doubts and struggles forecast by chilling winds. Each season gifts life, in its right time, as ordered by the Maker.
Though the maple knows not her crimson beauty, nor the aspen his golden crown, their gift is undiminished. When the sap shall barely flow and the passerby no longer pause to glance, hope shall be no less certain, ‘while the earth remains’.
Thus, each season of the earth or soul may be embraced. And, thus, in awe and thanksgiving may each trail be walked, no matter the season.
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Krameria St., Denver, CO - the day of the poem
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| I-70 near Vail, CO |
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Fish Creek Falls, Steamboat Springs, CO
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written October 23, 2022
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