But now in September the garden has cooled, and with it my possessiveness. The sun warms my back instead of beating on my head . . . The harvest has dwindled, and I have grown apart from the intense midsummer relationship that brought it on.
It is dark now, at an hour when it once was light.
Seasons change and we learn to let go and look ahead.
Another September arrives before we think we are ready for it, but we find that we are ready for it nonetheless.
With or without summer’s gifts, we would have still arrived at this moment when intensity gives way to rest.
Treasure isn’t found in cacophony but in stillness, and the change of seasons points to truth.
It takes a few Septembers before we see this, but when we do we wonder how we missed it for so long.
We find a balance that hold us steady.
We find wisdom.