There is a season

that is unknown.

Foreign, like a language

never heard,

from a land that

slipped away

into the recesses of

the crags of time.

It is a season,


the fifth season.

It is not the beginning,

when life bursts forth

with shuddering vigor

and an ever seeking reach.

Nor is it the pinnacle of

radiant days,

eloquent in their balmy


It is not the swirling

bliss of carefree


rustling and rattling

through our afternoons.

It is not the finality,

that is expected,

that is only a moment,

that is only dark,

because of our fear

of it.

There is peace, and stillness,

and time for reflection there,

a bane if life was wasted,

a joy if life was invested

in one’s own destiny.

This passage

into the unknown season,

is but a gateway into

the time of renewal,

of altered form,

and reunion with

all that is forgotten,

when we cross the river


so that we can

begin again.


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