A Child at Christmas

The Forsythia is starting to fade.
The bright yellow blooms are fraying on the edges.
Petals fall to the grass.
A day. Maybe three and the yellows will be
a memory.

Nearby are the lilacs.
A bit slower in the season.
The buds are just beginning.
The fragrant violet blossoms a memory as well,
of what was, what will be.
Anticipation.

How wonderful to understand the seasons
are nothing more than a parade,
an ever changing panoply of beauty and color.
Death and resurrection.
Always, there is something to mourn.
Always, there is something to wait for
like a child at Christmas.

About this poem.

About the flowers in my yard. The picture is from some of my lilacs. Also about life in general, and the wonder of aging.

I think sometimes of the worst parts of my life, and the coming back, and creation and recreation of my life now, of the magic of love in the autumn of life, of how I fretted when I was young over things that in the end, bloomed into something breathtaking.

Life is a miracle. Even on my bad days.

Tom