Winter in the South means a mix of seasons but the absence of snow. My soul needs the snow though. Still, I find much beauty in the messages and stories that appear in my lens. There is always a story in my lens.
I have been admiring the stubbornness of Autumn. Colors still ablaze that arrived in standardized winter months hold fast, refuse to let go. Soon it will be spring here. How long can Autumn hold on? Will she co-exist with Spring next? As much as I admire her, part of me wants to console her, let her know that it will be okay to relax her grip, to let change occur. I have known such resistance, such unsettling feelings, such pre-nostalgia, such fear.
I am not a fan of change, which surprises even me given my fiery resistance to conformity. Part of me admires the fiery leaf refusing to be classified into a season, to be confined to certain months. Part of me sees a sadness though too, especially paired with the fiery setting sun, similarly seeming to stall in its descent, wanting to stay just a bit longer.
Autumn clings defiant or weeping; its leaves like the setting sun seem to desperately hold on.
Part choice, part determination it seems to be to avoid the extermination while still living caused by the loss of feeling when we fall into that state of complacency, the dangerous hibernation of our dreams, the steps we take turning our back on the way it could be, should be…
It’s not easy to keep the gray from taking our colors. We fade, part victim, part converter; we don’t sell our souls, we give them now away in exchange for tickets to nowhere but in that gray for longer, forever, to remain.
I feel the pull of the evolution of the devil, the camouflaged minions, the demons no longer with arms now casting spells.
I feel the brush, the tickle of tentacle; to kick it off takes more than will. Too many sleepers not getting taken but tricked into nonthinking by the sweet song of sirens.
I climb the mountain and expectedly find the gray shadow spreading like turpentine.
I wrap my limbs protectively around my colors and flee to find my favorite awake other.
Together, we embrace, not in fear but as survivors thankful for our non-superpowers.
We will not succumb to the non-fate of the others who gave freely away one by one each of their colors.
We will keep painting on life’s canvas to preserve hope and beauty with each brush of our breath,
not with fire, but signaling with bright hues to the others who may be out there still imbued.
Ultimately, this poem originated from reading a dear WP friend’s poem and listening to a song he posted (which I shared above). (If you are not connected with Ivor Steven, then your life is not as bright as it could be because the light of his soul shines like none other.) Ivor’s poem captures, despite the melancholy mood from the song, a wonderful moment––a pastry, a poem reading, a friendly unmasked smile. Simple. Yet everything really.