It’s that time of year again: and, as always, my mind turns its attention to the art of dying. Each leaf represents a living being; each tree, the eternal soul. When the time comes, as it will for each of us, we will have to let go of our place in this world and fall (in)to the ground, yet again. But we will grow anew when the spring comes.

Those who are closest to the ground of their being have the least distance to fall.

And, sometimes, the silent observer has to stand back to appreciate the bigger picture.

But in the end, we all go out of this world in a flaming blaze of glory.

Death in Autumn

The leaf, once a warm budding sprout, is now cold:

He is brittle and coloured for he is old;

He knows his life is finished as he closes his eyes,

Drifts into that endless sleep, and dies.

(From Seasoning, written in 1968)