This cold quiet November weekend. Persephone descends. Lifeforce retreats into the roots. Foliage lays browns on a bleak landscape. Seeds settle into rest, under the soil.
Winter sets in the dying time. A dying that is integral to life. That is a future fertility. Into which the next season will birth and grow.
We are at an edge. Of a great turning. Knowing. Watching. Seeing. Observing. Listening. To the breathing. For the stirring. Waiting. For what comes next.
Dear darkening ground,
you’ve endured so patiently the walls we’ve built,
perhaps you’ll give the cities one more hour
and grant the churches and cloisters two.
And those that labor—let their work
grip them another five hours, or seven,
before you become forest again, and water, and widening wilderness
in that hour of inconceivable terror
when you take back your name
from all things.
Just give me a little more time!
I want to love the things
as no one has thought to love them,
until they’re worthy of you and real.
Rilke, Book of Hours, I 61