And once again the surfeit of the season does not want to give way to the paucity of the next. The many will not yield to the few; abundance to the rime of frost. The old would force the clock if it could, to let its inspiration, now demon-filled, last longer. Yet leaves themselves begin their converse with skeletons: their own, which soon will leave their green flesh in the past. And what do I see in this? Myself. I read the runes and see how the shades must jostle for space in a world which is unforgiving of death.
Is autumn an advance on summer? Is winter a progression? It seems not - summer has everything. And yet the earth gives no concessions. And so it is in the seven ages of man: one human being has to cast himself off to let the next one stand free. At the end there is no further costume - the man is complete or is food for the worms, depending on your point of view. In the seven ages of humanity the same is true - each new stage is a boundless gift. Why are we so perplexed about accepting it? Because we read the runes, we see skeletons and shades dancing. We see the leaves, which are ourselves, giving no ground, making no concession.
Then I find myself in a rocky grotto. The leaves tumble; holy icons wink and whisper. I don't know how new life will open. I turn and face the holy mother. I stand in my own solitude and pray.
Jay
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