Death & Dormancy
Written by Anne Thrope
I love the miasma, the stench, rancid decomp, of autumn decay.
A time when the muted forest whispers speak of winter’s dismay.
When chlorophyll production slows to a crawl, then to none at all,
the varying degrees of green dwindle from the leaves, so they fall.
The myriad pigments in the leaves begin to dance with one another.
And, as they mingle, they will paint the landscape with vibrant color.
But, the harsh brutality of the frigid cold temperature freezes the air.
And, the ferocity of the North wind will soon strip the bold trees bare.
The dense canopy overhead that once provided shelter and shade,
each individual leaf that falls, every single needle, petal, and blade,
subtly breathes a life-giving nutrition to the Earth, enriching the soil.
And, a collective protest is heard as the weary rakers of leaves toil.
Growth is now rested by the lengthening nights, inclement weather.
The most fragile among us will soon wither and perish, altogether,
while the very hardiest will quietly slip into a deep seasonal coma.
This obsessive gardener considers Winter a near-fatal carcinoma.
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