For weeks the unmistakable signs of approaching autumn have advertised the change in seasons, yet they coexist with vestiges of estival exuberance.
Still, butterflies drink deeply of the sweet nectar of friendly flowers whose vital force continues to pulsate.
Still, the sun warms the air and lights the days, though they are growing shorter. Birds wing southward to milder climes, and while one swallow does not a summer make, the absence of their multitudes signals summer’s end.
The transformation of green foliage into hues of yellow, orange, and red, and of colorful blossoms into seed-bearing vessels is the most obvious harbinger of the earth’s ever-increasing distance from our solar orb. It is accompanied by a chill that rides on Aeolus’s wings, by leaves that tumble in his wake, and by the smell of composting vegetation on his breath.
It is a time of endings. The ending of vibrancy. The ending of the earth’s most productive period.
A time of wistfulness.
A time to reflect on goals unfinished.
A time of regrets.
It is also a time of beginnings. The beginning of dormancy. The beginning of the earth’s most conservative period.
A time of gratitude.
A time to celebrate accomplishments.
A time of hope.
Hope, that life will continue, that we will have another chance, that spring will once again spring.
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