As I chewed on fresh beeswax and savored the pale golden honey, it added a new flavor to the usual palate of Autumn. The usual sweetness of maple leaves that sails through the wind, the soft scent of squash as the breeze rustles its garden vines, and the occasional coursing of woodsmoke completes the sensual tale of Fall. Except for the story's theme, which inevitably is one of sadness, of loss, of mourning--the death of love, of youth, of the summer with which we are so enamoured. I reach my hand into the wind, as if I could grasp it, hold it and cherish it through the snows, but I cannot. I cannot hold them--the beauty, the colors, the warmth--all fade like memory, like childhood, like I will eventually. The newness of the sunwarmed honey was a rebirth of memories lost. It was the loveliness of the brilliant wildflowers that colored my June and July, it was the early Spring Basswood leaves, whispering of the summer yet to come. It was the infancy of my hopes, my aspirations for youth and early adulthood. It told me stories of summer that I had forgotten, or not yet heard--of the purple clover that children ran through in their clicking flipflops, of the pink beebalm and lavender mint blossoms that grandmothers gathered to dry for tea. The honey was the same light blonde of the little ones with their sun-kissed hair, of the beach sand, nearly white, glistening with the gold reflection of the sun. Could I have savored it forever, held its flavor with my tongue, I would have. But as with all things, it faded. Gently like the notes of mothers' lullabies, the snow will come, gently like the memorized nightly prayers, giving comfort to the old bones of our souls, who rely on the routine change of seasons. Soon we'll sleep. We will sleep. We'll be reborn. We'll sing songs of Spring once more. We will mourn. We will die. We depend on the cycle to remind us why.
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As I chewed on fresh beeswax and savored the pale golden honey, it added a new flavor to the usual palate of Autumn. The usual sweetness of maple leaves that sails through the wind, the soft scent of squash as the breeze rustles its garden vines, and the occasional coursing of woodsmoke completes the sensual tale of Fall. Except for the story's theme, which inevitably is one of sadness, of loss, of mourning--the death of love, of youth, of the summer with which we are so enamoured. I reach my hand into the wind, as if I could grasp it, hold it and cherish it through the snows, but I cannot. I cannot hold them--the beauty, the colors, the warmth--all fade like memory, like childhood, like I will eventually. The newness of the sunwarmed honey was a rebirth of memories lost. It was the loveliness of the brilliant wildflowers that colored my June and July, it was the early Spring Basswood leaves, whispering of the summer yet to come. It was the infancy of my hopes, my aspirations for youth and early adulthood. It told me stories of summer that I had forgotten, or not yet heard--of the purple clover that children ran through in their clicking flipflops, of the pink beebalm and lavender mint blossoms that grandmothers gathered to dry for tea. The honey was the same light blonde of the little ones with their sun-kissed hair, of the beach sand, nearly white, glistening with the gold reflection of the sun. Could I have savored it forever, held its flavor with my tongue, I would have. But as with all things, it faded.
Gently like the notes of mothers' lullabies, the snow will come, gently like the memorized nightly prayers, giving comfort to the old bones of our souls, who rely on the routine change of seasons. Soon we'll sleep.
We will sleep. We'll be reborn.
We'll sing songs of Spring once more.
We will mourn. We will die.
We depend on the cycle to remind us why.
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