And Suddenly, It Is Late
And suddenly, it is late in the season.
The corn is tasseling, and the wheat becomes golden.
New flowers, almost fall flowers, are in bloom.
The nights begin to cool.
There is a temptation to mourn.
Summer has come and now prepares to go
and there is so much left to do,
unfinished things, hopes unrealized.
But it is time. What is undone can wait.
Time will not be denied.
The change in seasons, as murky as they are,
are undeniable, and there is no fighting them.
Better to simply say “This is,
and I will savor it for the time it is here.”
Better to spare yourself the mourning,
anger or bitterness of what is not, and hope
for a new season, another summer
or riotous colors waving in the wind,
our God of second chances, reminding us with each season,
why we need them.
About this poem
I planted a few vegetables this summer a few weeks past when they tell you to plant up here in Vermont. They have grown slow and it’s doubtful I will get any to eat this season – the leaves in the quarry have already begun to color.
Such is life. High expectations, and too little time, or too little of me.
For too many years I spent my season changes bemoaning what I did not manage to do or do well, and missed the joy of what I actually did. Today, finally, I choose to rejoice in what is instead of thinking much of what might have been or even what should have been.
No more. Nothing has changed. Everything has changed, all by that choice.