Seasons are said to “turn” as if they were a wheel or a never ending carousel, but nothing could be less true. Time stretches out, linear, leading onward to our own personal event horizon; unless we are wrong about time itself and our primate brains are stuck in this mode of thought, like cats being asked to ponder algebra. Perhaps we are to time what flat-earths were to the world. In that case the seasons may indeed turn, but never in neat circles. Maybe the seasons are more like the skin of a well peeled apple cascading in crazy erratic turns. To me each arrives like a new party with timeless true friends, so welcome and fun; but like all parties there is a beginning, a middle and an end. We all wish for a long journey, though perhaps it is the beauty and warmth of the steps we should value more.
Seasons pass like merry-go-round horses, prettily painted in their own colors. Winter is a dapple-grey with snowy streaks, her icy hooves sparkling in a sun that has lost her heat. Next comes spring, in every hue of pastels, her feet lost in the new sprung grass. Summer prances in shades so vibrant the fair-goers shade their eyes, yet smile at the brilliant echoes of July afternoons. But by far the most dazzling is sweet autumn, an ever changing mosaic of scarlet and gold. As the merry-go-round turns the crowd reflects on the season passed and the one to come, while taking a suspended moment to enjoy the one at hand.
The seasons come and go like old friends. They bring memories of seasons past and the promise of seasons to come. They dance by us changing gradually in their back and forth way, two steps forward and one step back. And like time itself we cannot halt them, we cannot hang on to spring or keep the summer with us for longer.
Each has their time, their moment, their season.