The Season of Death

I used to think of it as the season of death,
when everything fell from the limbs
and left skeleton-like arms,
when the season turned cold
and the brightest colors dried dead,
fell to the ground
and blew away. Barren.

I used to think of it as the season of death,
unaware that I was more like the trees and gardens
than I knew. That underneath the dry, cold
appearance of demise, something new was brewing
and I would emerge in a spring of my own,
new and beautiful and barely recognizable,
sap rising, new leaves creating a canopy of shade
for the weary, new colors to mark the landscape.

I used to think of it as the season of death,
But as so often happens, I was wrong.
It was instead, the beginning
of the season of light.

About this poem.

About my life first, and the dark times, and the times of light that grew from it. And yes, it can be about the Autumn, which is upon us here in Vermont. Nothing in life is about only one thing.

Tom