Skirts flying in the slight breeze. Sun interrupted by gleeful young clouds. Trees, good-natured, laugh at the merriment. Running to classes. People–lots of people–I can’t remember all their names. Running down the hill, throwing heels aside. Test over. Crickets, chorusing, serenading the beginning of friendships.
Scarves. Lots of scarves. And hats. Brisker wind. Trees begin contemplating a change in vestments. Marching to class, click, click, click. Wet mown grass, a towel thrown down to sit on. Forgoing heels for boots. Geese on the pond. Another test over. Walking back over wet grass.
Rain. Flats. Definitely flats. Still scarves. Curly hair bouncing in mad abandon. Running through the rain, leaving dignity at home as we laugh gleefully. Trees smile wisely and begin their swan song. The geese fuss as we disturb them with our unrestrained glee. Tests? What tests? Papers with the sound of rain. Praying mantis peeks in on cemented friendships. And all of a sudden–
Jackets. And coats. And scarves. And long skirts that swish when you walk. And tests. Midterms, actually. Trees are suddenly red and gold and purple and orange and that red that is so bright it might be pink. The geese have taken up residence on the pond. They’re not leaving. And don’t you dare bother them! And cold. Crisp. Bustling squirrel ignores crazy friends who talk to him. And then–
For a weekend. Coats and hats and scarves and gloves and layers, and names written in the snow. And snowballs. And trees, only momentarily confused, retain their robes of honor. It is not yet time to lay them down. They wear their blanket of snow with the dignity given them by God. Sickness. But joy through the sickness. Friends laughing, and coughing, until they are blue in the face. The disgruntled geese ruffle their feathers.
Last ride of the spring clothing. Ribbons. Confused cherry trees, young and fickle, try to put their own spring dresses on. The older, wiser, willow chuckles softly in her golden gown. Walks around the lake. The geese settle down. Papers and homework and tests and wait, it’s fall, is this that indian summer thing they told me about? The trees appear to be laying down their robes and crowns. Music. Wanderlust.
for the shifting seasons
and the gift of the harvest
and the light of the sun
and the moon
and the stars
and the cleansing rain
and the comforting sun
and the snow that reflects the beauty given
for the trees in their glory
and all of your creatures
We thank you.