The Season of Now
At the back of the country church, fans lie on a table,
reminders of summer, and worship without the comfort
of air conditioners and other signs of wealth
we are not all blessed with.
But it is not summer. Not now.
Ice strafes our windshields and the fields are covered
by a blanket or snow. The thermometer hovers
in single digits. There is no need for fans.
Still, we leave them out. Less from habit
than lessons, that all seasons change,
that each season has its joys and pains,
and we should neither curse not rejoice too loudly.
Simply live. Be. Feel the air before it changes
and rejoice that you are there to breathe at all.
for you have come too close to death too often
to fear it any longer.
All the threats and deviltry of near death has done
is make you cling to life less,
and love it more.
About this poem
The older I get. The closer I have become to death, the less I fear it, and the more I find myself able to live in the here and now. Which makes life easier, and far more joyful. Even when it sucks for a while. (nice poetic word, sucks.).
The picture was taken at a church just down the road.