The Shift of Seasons

for Marion

It’s been far too long since I’ve cozied up on my front porch and watched the morning roll in.

Today it strides slow and heavy in a rain-soaked gray cloak, doing its best to whittle away the last muddy snow heaps from a winter who wore out its welcome. 

An older man I used to know, a kind soul, a Sunday acquaintance, once said: “I somewhat like the winter. I like to look out my windows and see bare trees. It’s a nice change from seeing trees with leaves. But eventually I grow tired of them too and look forward to seeing little green starts of spring.”

He’s right, you know. We need the stark and dreary, cold and bleary, so that we may appreciate anticipation for bud and bloom.

He died a few weeks ago.

On this balmy Sunday, the final day of February, the rain is a pre-spring teaser, reminding us that everything changes. No matter how stuck we may feel, holed up in our winter wallows, snow always melts, branches will blossom, and the sun’s angle ticks just a little bit higher each day. 

Our seasons come and go, a reliable swing of the pendulum. We’ve got to thank the winter for that — for its perspective, for its pulling-in, for its potential-energy pause.  And Life itself, promising that a shift of season waits just ahead.

© Vixen Lea 2021

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