Seasons

A crisp cool breeze caresses my face

As I stroll along the tree lined river bank.

Dry leaves of gold and brown crunch

beneath my feet as I meander along.

Squirrels scurry about from tree to tree

making preparations for the winter ahead.

A thick grey fog rolls in off the river,

shrouding the valley in its eerie silence.

The earth’s tears leave moisture on my face,

as it mourns the end of its season of growth,

laments the completion of the harvest,

and contemplates a long winter’s slumber. 

I sit heavily upon an empty wooden bench over looking

the river as it rushes by.  We too have seasons.

Each season arrives fresh and new, and presents

     Its own set of challenges,

     its own possibility of change,

     its own death and rejuvenation.

Like the seasons, we continue on, facing each new chapter

of our lives with renewed hope for better days, both for ourselves,

and for those around us.

I get up from the bench and wipe the dampness

from my jacket. I jam my hands into my pockets as

I turn and walk towards home. I see geese flying overhead,

habitually heading south for the protection of warmer climates. 

The sun is setting earlier in the evenings now, and there is a chill

in the air.  Perhaps a pumpkin spice latte is in my near future?

Perhaps indeed. 

--Ken Ferguson--