Overnight, autumn arrived, all flashy oranges and jeweled reds and brilliant yellows. The season tricked me into believing the cool, crisp, heaven-sent days would last. On Monday, the maple across the street was a blaze of glimmering color. By Saturday the tree’s top branches stretched bald into a dull sky, a ring of red leaves around the bottom of the stately tree already curling in on themselves.
This autumn is a mirror of my current life. Or so it feels.
At sixty-three, my heart may shimmer with plans and dreams, but my back aches, my body grows more stiff each day, and my energy level is reminiscent of those curled bottom leaves on the neighbor’s maple. Winter, that cold and heartless bitch, grows closer with every dawn. Each year, a larger part of me yearns to curl up under the warm snow banks and sleep my way to rebirth.
There are books to write and people to love, night skies to fall into and soft dawns to embrace.
Frost said it best.
“But I have promises to keep
and miles to go before I sleep.”