Autumn Lethargy

The week begins and ends with an evanescence as shortly lived as morning mists, plaintive in passing; a nascent newness crescendos from silence. Just as things once soared towards sunlight, now petals seep, fall, and petioles close their little doors, and what was once tall huddles near the womb of earth and warmth. A patient subliminal mythos lingers, I suspect, brooding with the foreign fog that seeps over the ridge.

The haste of summer still simmers, and while the harlequin autumn stumbles its way in, its lethargy struggles to settle. The begrudging retreat of sunlight and conquistador clouds battle, and the brown grass greens once more, while mosses surge to life in gutters and corners. Only winter suffers no whimsy.

I’m too calculated, slow in discovering the progression of life. I want to allow the proofs, quantities, and sums to seep over me, slow as the waters grow cold and the leaves turn gold to die. I never loved the fast life, the hunger for now and instantly – it’s the patience of winter gnawing at the skeletons of trees and the flowers’ too-lipid realization that goodbye arrived without why and how, and the whale’s taciturn turning about south.

The hummingbird and butterfly are too busy for me. It’s the bumbling bear not the bee, I adore, the lumbering moose and not the chittering squirrel. All are welcome by the fireplace with me, sipping tea, cider, chai, and freeing world’s trapped in prisons of paper bound.