There comes a time when autumn asks,
“What have you been doing all summer?”
I ask myself that question at the start of every September. The seemingly carefree summer is still here. The sun warms my back now in the garden, instead of my face. The warmth is still here only more mellow. The moon has a veil over the fields at night. I wake to a still dark sky.
We have had our day and our fill of the fruits of summer. Shoes are still a taunt to a far off day. Routine has started as the bounty of season is here. Days of school and afternoons of picking and preserving what summer is still giving.
Autumn is yet to be here. Yet the air is different–sings a new tune–one I have heard before. Autumn is nodding its head as it nudges its way here. I cry it is still September. I win the discourse for today.
My eyes still seach for the colors of spring. They are still here-yet they are not in flower beds and groomed. They are wild in their voices and the still violet flower is but a thistle amid the gold.
The change is coming. What was once fresh and new is showing its age as one season too many. The signs are all around and the sun makes it way to the southern sky. We wish we could follow–but we know that we must change too. To every time there is a season. Our hearts need to settle in-and nestle in with routine. We evaluate and assess. What will change-what needs to change. The dying will bring life after death. We see it year after year-yet-we dread.
We wait. A leaf will fall. We accept the change and hope for what the change will bring. We cannot see it now. Summer is still here. The air is still warm. The leaves are still green. The bees are still buzzing and the birds are still near. It is only but September. I am not ready for the leaves to fall. As we move into the shadows of Autumn, it is the night that brings the day of spring.
To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: