Winterspring
Every year the summer dies. The autumn winds blow and the sun dips lower into the falling sky. Those reddish-brown, copper tinged hues seep into the lingering landscape, and fall downwards. The seasonal decay accumulates itself and starts to rot inwardly into the crumbling crust of the centuries.
Every year the earth spins and rotates on its axis, like a top around the sun. Passing through
The vernal equinox, the days grow shorter as we rotate ourselves into the dark, cold winter months. Dark, frozen days separate the forces of nature from the source of her power, and we wait.
Every year there is a renewal. The days grow longer and the power of the sun returns to restore and regenerate new growth. Lovers emerge from their shadowed hollows and engage themselves. Life springs up from the ashes of posterity, until the sun touches the top of the magnificent sky.
Every year I contemplate the winterspring. In this time I fluctuate between the old and new.
The sun comes out and tempts me, I give chase to the scents and sights of nature’s gifts.
But the dark power of death and frozen memories lingers and I bow my head to the sun again.
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