Spring — the season of renewal. Promises of a glorious goodness burst forth in tender shoots of green.
Summer — the season of flourishing. Evidences of strength and vigor as sturdy, growing things mature.
Autumn — the season of harvest. Beauty in the dying things.
Wheat fields shimmer in the late summer sun. Weeks later, only stubble remains. Reminder of a granery filled.
Leaves. Russet, gold and brilliant maple red cling to branches already beginning to rest.
Fruit trees picked clean. Apples & Cinnamon mingle their fragrance. Abundance. Thanksgiving.
I often marvel that, in the Lord’s economy, things are often most lovely as their end approaches. Witness the beauty in dying things. The hillside’s splash of radiant color. The empty fields. The gnarled hands, folded in prayer. Age brings fruition. Winter brings rest. Preparation for the promised renewal. The best is yet to come.
I found this lovely poem by Adelaide Crapsey today. Its brevity shimmers with Autumn’s beauty. Called “November Night,” it reads:
Listen. . .
With faint dry sound,
Like steps of passing ghosts,
The leaves, frost-crisp’d, break from the trees
Autumn Beauty. It’s everywhere. Don’t miss it.