The sun is bright this morning.
The fields are green.
It is near harvest season,
but the fields are still green,
lush with corn and crops almost ripe,
almost ready for the picking.
In the hills. The leaves are beginning to change,
bright bubbles of red and yellow,
a hint of fall, no more.
But seasons change improbably fast here in Vermont.
Some, fall and winter are almost non-existent,
a flicker of change and then back to the extremes
that define this place.
That cold air in the morning is more than a signal.
It is a warning that winter will come.
Soon you will wake up and the morning frost will stay.
Snow will come. Fast as an angry stranger,
drunk and mean.
This then is a benefit of age.
You have lived the seasons of love and hate,
hot and cold, the extremes
of light and dark that permeate your life.
You know the wisdom of preparation,
of the work that makes no sense
in the beauty of summer.
So let the winter come. Today or tomorrow,
it does not matter. The blankets are laid aside.
Firewood is stacked and the candles are on the mantle.
You are ready.
One more time,
you are ready.
About this poem.
About the seasons, which up here in Vermont change quickly. About life, which changes quicker.
The picture was taken a few miles down the road from where I live.