there is no novelty (and yet)

He who was living is now dead

~

what
is the fascination
with seasons

every year
a new poem
of winter

a new verse
of summer

a rejoicing
of spring

the seasons
are fine things
but . . .

what
is so fascinating

I wonder

~

through this last
twelve-month
I have watched
daily
the oak trees

two
magnificents
that stand at the rear
of the property

north

all through summer
they are lush
in leaf

never
without three or four
species
of bird

eternally
the leaves shining
coated
with sticky secretions
from black aphid

bees and wasps
to feed off that
sticky substance

alive

then
the autumn

gradually
the trees imposing themselves
into the air
all around them

I watch as leaves
are released
to drift with the wind

ones and twos
then
flurries

it is a suggestion
of maturity . . .

the release
of offspring
or some such
similar
fancy

the colours of brown
and orange
mingled
with green

acorns bouncing
from the ground
wherever
they strike

winter
is bare branches

the look of
abandonment

deep-sleeping
through the cold
as though dead

brittle sticks
falling

a thick carpet
of leaves
below

if not
sad
it is at least
a stark time

high contrast
between the black
of stick-like branches
and the grey
of cloud
seen through them

a picture
of patience
eternal

spring
is here
in a minute

from day
to day
the dead black branch tips
acquire
an idea
of colour

a mere
suggestion
until
the whole
of the tree –
of both trees –
is green

life
and purpose
has returned

~

it is all
very marvelous
I know
but . . .

it happens every year

there is no
novelty
to this cycle
of life
and death
and life all over again

and yet . . .

and yet

~

4 thoughts on “there is no novelty (and yet)

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