Seems there’s been nothing quite so beautiful lately.
Sure, the sky’s been blue, the clouds have changed from thick puffs to feathery gray shadows like a penciled cross hatch artist technique.
I’ve seen birds and the geese have flown over. I’ve stopped being moved, though.
Not sure why.
Butterflies still all gathered and bright green vines cascade over their pots into big puddled places in the ground.
I suppose I’ve become accustomed to the beautiful to the extent I’m less amazed.
I walk unfazed by the earth, my walk, becoming habitual.
Then, we veer off. The dog’s nose keen and persistent. I resist the pull of the leash, firmly shouting the “No sir!” that causes him to obey.
I let him wander and I stop.
An old skinny tree, fragile, leaves becoming marigold from healthy green, I notice the web, huge sack-like cottony, a fibrous balloon.
Dense and thickly woven, a place for pine needles and changing leaves to land.
I ponder what lives inside, certain it is cherished.
Beautful in its place, it’s time and it’s purpose.
Refreshing my walk with
a new perspective.
I’ve heard some think of Autumn as a beginning, much more than Spring as a time for new and renewed.
A time to see beautiful and possible and purposeful in things you’d not before.
Autumn, may you be my season.
I’ve been looking for you.