All washed up.
Past its prime.
Burned out.
Gone to seed.
I wander in my garden
trying to avoid fat spiders in the center of iridescent webs.
The blossoms are pale memories of their earlier flamboyance.
Leaves curl and drop to the ground,
slanted sunbeams dance on seed pods, rosehips and apples.
It feels right and good,
and I relish the feel of fall around the bend.
There is an aching, textured beauty in fading things,
in seedy stalks and brown petals,
in a green lawn speckled with frost-bitten leaves.
A year would not be complete without this time.
But then, I know what's waiting.
Brilliant fall colors leading to
the quietness of winter.
And then the awakening of spring
when seeds will sprout under a warming wind
and blossoms will grace the garden once again,
each one cherished as a testimony
that life goes on.
If it's easy for my eyes to see this,
for my mind to acknowledge it,
then why is it so difficult for my heart to embrace it
when I face this in my own life?
A closed door,
a fading dream,
while life rushes past at the speed of light.
Do I plod ahead in my pursuits
even when the visions have lost their luster?
Do I keep trying
even when all seems fruitless?
Or do I pack my dreams away,
fold my hands and silence the words,
striving for contentment?
Yet these flowers haven't given up,
they are still working, still fruitful,
spreading seeds and beauty
even while shriveling and brown.
How can I not do the same?
My Father, the keeper of the times and the seasons,
has called me by name.
He has given me a hope and a vision.
Feeble though I be, I want to carry on,
I want to finish strong,
striving in the knowledge that He holds
my days in His hands.
