Leaves coil, their lives once green and blooming in the summer's heat meet the cold soil below.
All of creation turns in, but we carry on, intrepid.
I notice in front of me the carcass of a little moth. My first thought is to sweep it into a tissue and remove it from the counter. But a small quiver pulls my gaze closer.
The wings tremble so delicately, you would have to be watching so closely to even notice.
I brought my face down closer the moth. His little eyes met mine, and I witnessed him witness me.
He is dying.
My heart swelled with mourning at the realization, and yet there was calmness about it. A sacrality I felt gratitude in watching.
There is something so intimate about witnessing a death. More if not equal to the intimacy of making love, or giving birth.
The three are bound to one another like a trinity of lovers.
Maiden, Mother, Crone
spring, summer, autumn/winter.
As the cycle continues, by spring I have forgotten the melancholy of fall.
But there is a solace to this sadness. An intimacy that cannot be matched...
To rejoice and to lament, tears do fall. The heart swells and pulses all the same.