Photo by Phantomimic. Copyright RAGG.
Phantomimic is one of my favorite writers from SCRIBD. He can write prose or poetry, and his versatility extends to wonderful book reviews, lovely emails, and a thoughtful BLOG. Here he shares a piece about my favorite season, Fall.
Fall is here; winter is approaching.
On this crisp cool day the sunlight breaks with more ease through the branches, but still struggles to warm the ground.
I take a deep breath and sigh; one more year has gone by.
Squirrels dart around gathering as much food as possible, furtive robins jump around hunting for a morsel to beef up their reserves, and noisy V-shaped formations of geese fly south.
Still lingering on soon to be barren branches, leaves dangle like delicate ornaments and flutter like mobiles in the wind.
The dying appendages from the glory days of spring and summer delight us with the tint of their demise. When else in our lives do we revel in the outcomes of the process of death and decay? When?
I'm not the one that I once was. My body too is beyond its glory days, now approaching the autumn of my life. Not unlike the leaves around me, I feel life slowly draining away, and in my dreams I see visions of walking sticks, hospitals, and funerals.
The green in the landscape has been slowly vanishing, chased away by splotches of red and yellow, like a disease spreading from the tips to the stems.
The sunlight seeping through the thinning foliage seems to decompose as if going through a prism producing a rainbow of colors.
It resembles an artist's palette of gold, green, orange, and red, or a treasure chest bursting with rubies, emeralds, jaspers, and opals.
All around me oaks and maples explode ablaze as if engulfed in bright red and yellow flames.
There is amazing beauty in this, and yet....and yet....
Lost in thought I think of the magnificent trees all around me.
At least they have rings to show for the toils and troubles of each year of their lives. But they too will fall and decompose into soil, or be hacked into firewood, or be converted into paper to wipe asses or write poetry.
Leaves tumble to the ground. A few lucky ones fall in wet areas of the pavement and rot leaving behind black imprints; everyone knows how important it is to leave your mark.
The leaves on the ground at first retain some of their color, but then turn into dull shades of brown dotting the landscape with ordinariness; death is less noticeable when it's boring.
They are dry and twisted like mummies that have drifted forever in the sea of time.
I step on them and they disintegrate making crunching sounds. They crumble so easily under my foot, just as we all crumble so easily under the relentless pressure of age.
The leaves blow with the wind tracing the air currents and spiral in the whirlwinds of the late afternoon rising like the souls of the dearly departed.
I look at the vanishing sun; twilight is approaching, winter is approaching.
Soon the branches will be naked.
Soon the leaves in our backyards will be burned or placed in the trash.
Soon winter will arrive covering the land with a cold, still, white shroud.
And then, then I will wonder, "What is the point?" Yes, what IS the point?
What is the point of one more year?
What is the point of one more tree ring?
What is the point of one more crop of pretty dead leaves?
What is the point....of one more poem?
But not today, no, NOT TODAY!
Today, I will walk into the modest house of my happiness, the one that I erected in the same lot where I had planned to build the skyscraper of my dreams, and I will be content with it!
Today, I will appreciate beauty for its own sake regardless of its nature!
Today, I will relish life and what it has given me, and I will not dwell on what it will eventually take away from me!
Today, I will live the magic of the moment, and I will forget the unchangeable past and the unpredictable future!
Today, I will love!
Today, I will sing!
Today, I will laugh!
Today....today....
....I will write a poem.
by Phantomimic
All rights reserved © RAGG
Fall is here; winter is approaching.
On this crisp cool day the sunlight breaks with more ease through the branches, but still struggles to warm the ground.
I take a deep breath and sigh; one more year has gone by.
Squirrels dart around gathering as much food as possible, furtive robins jump around hunting for a morsel to beef up their reserves, and noisy V-shaped formations of geese fly south.
Still lingering on soon to be barren branches, leaves dangle like delicate ornaments and flutter like mobiles in the wind.
The dying appendages from the glory days of spring and summer delight us with the tint of their demise. When else in our lives do we revel in the outcomes of the process of death and decay? When?
I'm not the one that I once was. My body too is beyond its glory days, now approaching the autumn of my life. Not unlike the leaves around me, I feel life slowly draining away, and in my dreams I see visions of walking sticks, hospitals, and funerals.
The green in the landscape has been slowly vanishing, chased away by splotches of red and yellow, like a disease spreading from the tips to the stems.
The sunlight seeping through the thinning foliage seems to decompose as if going through a prism producing a rainbow of colors.
It resembles an artist's palette of gold, green, orange, and red, or a treasure chest bursting with rubies, emeralds, jaspers, and opals.
All around me oaks and maples explode ablaze as if engulfed in bright red and yellow flames.
There is amazing beauty in this, and yet....and yet....
Lost in thought I think of the magnificent trees all around me.
At least they have rings to show for the toils and troubles of each year of their lives. But they too will fall and decompose into soil, or be hacked into firewood, or be converted into paper to wipe asses or write poetry.
Leaves tumble to the ground. A few lucky ones fall in wet areas of the pavement and rot leaving behind black imprints; everyone knows how important it is to leave your mark.
The leaves on the ground at first retain some of their color, but then turn into dull shades of brown dotting the landscape with ordinariness; death is less noticeable when it's boring.
They are dry and twisted like mummies that have drifted forever in the sea of time.
I step on them and they disintegrate making crunching sounds. They crumble so easily under my foot, just as we all crumble so easily under the relentless pressure of age.
The leaves blow with the wind tracing the air currents and spiral in the whirlwinds of the late afternoon rising like the souls of the dearly departed.
I look at the vanishing sun; twilight is approaching, winter is approaching.
Soon the branches will be naked.
Soon the leaves in our backyards will be burned or placed in the trash.
Soon winter will arrive covering the land with a cold, still, white shroud.
And then, then I will wonder, "What is the point?" Yes, what IS the point?
What is the point of one more year?
What is the point of one more tree ring?
What is the point of one more crop of pretty dead leaves?
What is the point....of one more poem?
But not today, no, NOT TODAY!
Today, I will walk into the modest house of my happiness, the one that I erected in the same lot where I had planned to build the skyscraper of my dreams, and I will be content with it!
Today, I will appreciate beauty for its own sake regardless of its nature!
Today, I will relish life and what it has given me, and I will not dwell on what it will eventually take away from me!
Today, I will live the magic of the moment, and I will forget the unchangeable past and the unpredictable future!
Today, I will love!
Today, I will sing!
Today, I will laugh!
Today....today....
....I will write a poem.
by Phantomimic
All rights reserved © RAGG
RSS Feed
