Seasonal

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We're all seasonal items. Don't mean to be morbid or foreboding, just a thought that re-plays in some form probably daily, in the market, driving around, or at home, a certain awareness, or recalling.

Just strikes me starkly some days, how we're here one moment, and then we're not here, ever again as far as we know, not much. Dandelions, blown into wind.

At this season of life, the invisible follower just a silent step behind, ready when absolutely necessary but not before, irrelevent now, patient to wait.

Remember to be right here, wherever that is, the moment I'm in, leave the future-past where they are, no conflating all three.

A season begun in a sunrise inkling, a horizon breaking into a wink of day, as if it's all happened a trillion times before.

Later is sooner now, wheels turning slower, more certain, seasons rushing for reasons both common and rare.

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