Short touching stories

Seasons

The foliage of the beech hedgerow in May were pure optimism, bright and young. Come August they were a reverent green, as deep as the North American pines. How those leaves told the story of the seasons, the return of colour followed by the strong browns of its winter wands.

Seasons fade in and out like soft lullabies, their transitions slow but never faltering. Like mother earth herself they only turn in one direction, always onward, never back. As they wax and wane the pace of city life changes.

In summer everyone is high energy, all systems go. With the first wash of autumn air, moving over the high-rises and suburbia like a shallow wave, the people slow down to a quieter pace. The winter is flatter still, but never falling into a negative spin, the folk of this city love the snow too much for that.

Then spring comes to wake the metropolis: people, trees and blooms. Folks walk under newly unfurled leaves, smile at the fresh new flowers and tilt their faces upward to the new warmth in the sun's rays.

Seasons pass like merry-go-round horses, prettily painted in their own colours. 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 scarlets 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 snow comes, white and glistening, erasing the troubles beneath, directing me toward a new and positive day. The coldness only crispness up my resolve to find love today. Perhaps in this swirling perfect whiteness that gives perfect crystalline kisses, the coolness in the air will rejuvenate my soul, elevate my spirit and give me new reasons to step forward with confidence.

It might be winter but there is beauty in it, clarity, the kind of thinking that lets me notice small details like how the trees through bare have the promise of spring within them, like the creator Himself lies dormant in the branches, ready to burst forth and greet the world with His many hues of green.

Days had stretched into months, and months had stretched into years. The pale cerise and cranberry pink blossoms of the cherry trees in Chantelle's backyard had fluttered downwards with the end of spring; the trees had revelled in their brilliant, emerald green canopy of leaves, reflecting the bright rays of the summer sun.

Finally, autumn came, bathing the trees in a scarlet and caramel haze, crisp leaves as they pirouetting to earth like ballet dancers.
Soon summer is back and the seasonal carousel is complete for another year.

          ©Simon Lukas kizito