Life is full of waiting, isn’t it?
Sometimes you wait for something pleasant, expected. Other times you are waiting for some phantom-like hope; unidentified, just something different than what you currently hold.
A few weeks ago I sent off a story to a writing contest. I can’t find out when they’ll publish the winner. While I’m waiting, they’ve issued another contest-this one for seasonal poetry.
I love Autumn. Autumn is also rather phantom-like where I live (ok, it almost doesn’t exist). I find my thoughts wandering to this elusive season.
It is the easiest season to write about so far. I think sometimes things that seem the farthest away can be dearest to us. Anticipation or longing makes the pang that much deeper.
One thing I love about Autumn is the tension between the anticipation of changing seasons and the decay of the present season. Fiery-colored leaves-not at all a picture of giving up-then dull and drab. Finally, the clean white of winter.
Across the earth does Autumn tread
Her feet are neat, but they have bled
In color, blazing orange, gold, and red.
She knows that all will soon be dead.
Yes, this poem is somber. It’s scribbling, really. Practice. And yet this piece of writing spoke to me in unexpected ways, even as I wrote it.
You see, there’s more.
But with a sigh, “never fear,
Now is Winter drawing near
White and bright and crystal clear
Rest and hush for you, my dear.”
Don’t we long for that? That rest on the other side of waiting?
So autumn turns through one more day.
The string from waiting to decay
Will soon be cut and thrown away.
She knows till then to work and play.
There is an end to waiting. And, lest you fear for my mental health, rest assured, I am learning, til then, to work and play. Like so many I know who wait.
I keep writing.
There is hope.
Life goes on.
One day, past Winter, there will even be the renewal of Spring.
What are you waiting for?