Spring- Summer- Fall- Winter And Spring Now

The crack of color. The air smells of smoke and memory. Summer’s arrogance is humbled by the first cool breeze. This is the season of letting go. We watch the leaves—once our trophies—turn gold, then brown, then dust. Harvest becomes reckoning. Did we plant enough? Did we love enough? Fall is not sad; it is honest. It strips the tree to its bone so the tree can remember what it truly is. Here, we learn the art of release.

This is the miracle the cynics forget. After the melt, after the mourning, a single green thread pushes through the mud. It is not the same Spring as before. It is wiser, quieter, scarred. The flowers that bloom now have known the frost. The love that returns now has buried its dead. This second Spring does not ask for innocence; it asks for courage. To begin again is not to erase Winter. It is to carry Winter inside you and plant anyway. Spring- Summer- Fall- Winter and Spring

This is the breath before the first word. The world is a tender, reckless green. Sap rises like hope in a young heart. In this season, we plant without knowing if we will stay to harvest. We fall in love with potential, with the scent of wet earth and the audacity of a bud splitting a gray branch. Mistakes made here are forgiven; they are just experiments in growing. We are all beginners in Spring, drunk on the light. The crack of color