W atery sunlight filters through cloudy cover
I cy winds freeze the scleras and nasal cavities
N ight comes quickly to steal away the day
T ea and pewter gulf shimmers in the light of pallid moon
E merald coast ages into the gray of Eastern Europe
R estless for spring’s thaw and summer’s melt
The Changing of the Color Guard
Flip-flops and tank tops,
falling apart from use,
are thrown out,
and piles of scarves and sweaters,
fuzzy soft and in need of a freshening,
are brought out.
Thick, flannel sheets are substituted for thin cotton,
and Grandma’s denim and lace quilt is shaken,
stirring the dust of time.
She reclines on the white deck chair,
soaking up the last of the summer sun,
her iced tea glass below the slats
sweating on the grass.
The crepe myrtles will fall from branches
like colorful, spring snowflakes,
as the town approaches the threshold of autumn.
Like a woman’s body,
the Earth goes through phases.
Fall is the time for exfoliating.
The changing leaves are the
last moment of clarity,
before everything dies,
or is covered with white—
a sort of lacy shroud—
shielding the bones and
the rotting flesh beneath.
She closes her eyes, sighs,
dreaming of dancing barefoot
to the bands on the beach,
of garden parties in the gazebo,
of a lightness of being
in the heavy humidity.
as if in a hypnotic state,
the froth of the ocean,
like the top of her daycap—
her daily coffee with the steamed milk on top.
She will be trading in her
hot, gingerbread latte for iced chai,
truffles for popsicles,
vine-ripened tomatoes for winter squash.
The house will be infused with the aromas
of nutmeg and sage,
rather than cilantro and dill.
Her smile is wistful,
for every day is a holiday in the summertime’
but Christmas and all its fancy trappings,
pierces the blues of winter,
and she turns over once more
to soak up the healthy yellow,
the wind at her back.
Fall is coming soon.
With Fall, comes the harvest—
an inspired ministry,
a reaping of souls.
The Lion will not rest till Winter.
With Winter, comes the wither
of the Rose of Sharon—
a crucifixion of the Lamb,
for the Lion and the Lamb are One.
Petals fall like sparrows;
the Shepherd is shorn,
and placed upon His head
a crown of thorns.
Then it is Spring—
a time for new life,
a time for singing.
The sting of death
has been swallowed whole,
and put in its place,
an everlasting hope.
This Root of Jesse
springs up into the Branch of Righteousness and
into the Tree of Life.
This Vine, this Rose,
is known by many Names,
is sweet as yesterday’s tomorrows,
though He be a Man of Sorrows.
Then comes Summer—
the season of the Ascension—
the return of the King of Kings,
the Prince of Princes,
to His heavenly reign.
…a time for everything…
(Ecclesiastes 3: 1-8)
Spring is the time of the new flower,
springing into bloom;
it is the long-awaited rebirth,
foretold in seasons past.
It is a time of singing,
the voice of the turtledove.
It is a time of resurrection;
it is the season of love.
Summer is the time of self-actualization,
a time of revelation—
of parables on the dunes,
and baptisms in the sea.
It is the time for the branch of the fig tree
to become tender, to put out its leaves—
a time of sweet fruit.
Earth is in the summer, the prime, of her life.
Autumn is the time to prepare for the coming harvest—
a time to build up our stores.
It is a time of change—
a harbinger of the coming sacrifice.
It is a time of full maturity,
yet also a time of decline.
That is why it’s called fall,
for Earth is in the Autumn of her life.
Winter is the time of hope for the coming salvation,
of the passing away, the fulfilling of old things
to bring about the new—higher and everlasting elation.
Earth is in the final stages of her life year,
and is put to death,
a crown of thorns placed on her head,
only to reawaken in spring,
as if from a long winter’s sleep instead.