Farewell, Old Friend.

Autumn quietness like a blanket around my middle this night, the walk back home. Endless comfort in the death and decay, autumn is the funeral house of the seasons. With a nod to the flourishing green just past we wait with trained patience through the decline, and then -- new life.

Spring will always come.

This year my life mimicks nature so closely, and there is much comfort to be found in this statement. We must do the requisite cleaning up once autumn's death has had its say; there are leaves to rake and gardens to till over. Only after this work has been done can we step with sure feet out of this autumnal shroud, and give ourselves completely and confidently to the new life that spring carries upon its heels. My hand releases from your grip and I

fade

to



light.