Though the calendar says that fall has arrived, vestiges of summer remain in the Deep South. As Summer reluctantly loosens her grip, her flora dutifully hang on to build a bridge from one season to the next.

Crepe Myrtles

Anxiously, I wait for autumn. The melancholy season. The season of change. The season of endless longing and doubt and questions. Anxiously, I wait.

Late Summer Flora

Usually.

But not this autumn.

Late Summer (4)

This year, though I see the luscious satsumas waiting for cooler weather to morph into a fiery orange, I accept the fruit in its verdant perfection. Orange is not the only color. Green is what it is supposed to be, now.

Summer is where I must exist now, and so I do. The choice is not mine anyway, but as long as I am here, I should be here fully. 

Late Summer (13)

Dying leaves are gentle reminders that fall is looming.

Is it possible to be simultaneously strengthened and weakened by the season’s melancholy? To be renewed by its endless possibilities while being stripped of reserve for fear of change?

Is it possible to be happy and sad at the same time? Is is possible to reveal one’s soul to the world all the while locking it safely within oneself?

It’s time to breathe deeply and listen. Answers don’t come otherwise, and even though time sometimes appears to stand still on this bayou, ever will it trudge onward. I am still here, now, not longing for more. Just longing for more time.

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