Waiting for Autumn

Not a breath of life teases the trees.

They perch still and green as the day they first budded.

I wonder, if I could will them to autumn, would I? Usher in the golden, the crimson, the vibrant hues of transforming trees?

Or leave it to nature’s touch … at times harsh; at others, little more than a whisper.

Or is it foolish to even consider such questions? Would I, even if I could, prolong a season, or shorten it?

Nature herself chooses to, at whim. It is October, and temperatures are still pushing 100 degrees.

I wait, as breathless as the still air, for the brush of autumn to paint the world around me.

But I think …

I know …

Nature understands best the timing of the seasons. Or if not nature, he who holds the seasons loosely, letting the heavens sift through his fingers. Snowflakes. Raindrops. Sunshine. Mist.

I recall a story I read as a child, of a boy with a magic thread wound around the spool of his life. He had the power to tug on the golden thread, and watch time pass swiftly before him.

Time and again, he chose to pull on it.

Dull school days. Waiting for marriage. Waiting for the birth of his child. Then waiting for that child to be grown. Finally, the spool was nearly spent, the thread as silvery white as the hair on his head.

His life neared its end …

And he had missed it all.

Urging time to speed past, seeking out only the highlights, he had thrown away the most precious gift he had:

Time.

Every piece of it. The mundane. The magical. The tense torture of waiting. The miraculous moments when unexpected joy pierces the pain like a sunbeam at midnight.

The old man pleaded another chance … and received it.

He was a boy again. His golden life threaded before him.

Since sitting on my front porch and starting to write, the glow of evening has faded into night.

Seven stars shimmer through the navy blue. The neighborhood trees jagged cut outs before the sky. The heat has dissolved into a gentle cool. Still, the air is silent, unmoving.

But not nature. Nature is always moving, its rainbow threads weaved into a pattern of transient beauty, designed.

Purposed.

As every moment in this golden thread of life.

Precious.

Yes, autumn will come, with its stirring of breath into the cooling air. And it will not be a moment too soon.

Published by Bonita Jewel

A writer and editor with nearly 20 years of experience, Bonita Jewel loves helping others weave words into beautiful things. Her blog offers insights on creativity, editing, the writing process, and reading to become a better writer. A few recurring themes you might notice in her work include belonging, identity, purpose, humans as creative beings, and the power of story. Contact Bonita for your next writing or editing project: https://bonitajewel.com/ Or connect with her on social media... Facebook: /BonitaJewelAuthor Instagram: @bonitajewel Twitter: @bonita_jewel

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: