Skip to main content

Why Autumn?

Imagine a world in which nothing grows, nothing changes, nothing goes. Such a continuum is impossible to imagine. What comes…goes, what IS will one day become what WAS. Nature has its own way of making space. The leaves grow old, fall off, clear way from young branches and new shoots to grow. Some grow on to mature; some fall of way too early. The cycle of death and rebirth continues endlessly.


Autumn is the season of longings. When what was is no more with us and what will be is unknown, it is the autumn in our lives. It sets the tone for hope, it makes us believe that tomorrow will be better than our yesterdays; it makes us dream of springtime again. Autumn is the lottery ticket, spring time its prize. I cannot wish you eternal spring, but I can wish for your wishes from autumn to come true.


God Bless. 

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Hush

You don't have to tell me. I just know. Its that little sniffle that comes through The unexplained pauses The slow responses I know when you call Just because you needed to cry.

Long Winter Chill

If I could do a Neruda, You would have smelt of summer roses And Autumn pine. There would have been sheer love Of the kind that causes our hearts to ache And loneliness bordering the divine. You would have had so many secrets Welling up as in a girly giggle And so few friends who would hear them all. I am no Neruda I can't paint you a Summer breeze Amidst this long winter chill.

That Fluttering of Broken Wings

If you were to cross the road and hurt your toe, I know that I will never know. As we go on to take different roads and move on across different shores, there is something that happens to our relationships. Something that estranges, disconnects, disintegrates. I know that you still think of me. I know this because I find myself thinking about you. And thoughts rarely get seeded on their own. It comes from you to I and from I to you until one of us is alive. Old relationships rarely die. Like broken winged moths, they hang around dark alleys of forgotten memory lanes. Ever so often, I can hear one of them flutter its wings. Not too close but never too far.