The Changing of a Season

Why is it so significant?  It happens every year.  Four times a year.   But it’s poetry catches me off-guard… every. single. time.

This weekend my kids were playing in beautiful Drake Park, raking the sun-colored oak leaves into giant piles, while more tumbled down all around them.  And the sunshine glittered through the half-bare branches and alighted the scene with it’s yellow warmth, and the wind sent up flurries of red and gold into the air around them.  It smelled of warm, dry earth and the laughter of kids and the tinkle of bicycles chimed through the air.

Fall

Fall leaves us so brilliantly, one last shining burst of flaming color and warmth to carry into the white canvas of winter.  Today it is snowing.  The winds are gone and it is quiet.  The frost has touched the metal, the stones, the brick, the dirt, and the wet aroma rushes inside when you open the door.  There is already a dusting of white covering every piece of backyard furniture, and I’m watching a family of songbirds scramble to pick every scrap of food that’s left in the cracks between stones.  There are only a last few desperately clinging leaves and an unused batting net standing lonely on the patio to remind me that just yesterday.. it was different.

winter

Nature is Beautiful.

3 thoughts on “The Changing of a Season”

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