All seasons pass


every November
when the nights are indisputably long
and the darkness stark and damp
and the falling leaves render bare the skeletons of the trees that bore them
I like to imagine the approaching winter as a valley
over which I cast an imaginary fishing line
several times
until my hook catches
upon one of the stalks of the delicate white bells
of the first snowdrops of next year

and somehow
this autumnal ritual
allows my body and soul and mind to accept
December’s chilling descent
and January’s long and seemingly silent
response

because in order to live well
upon these Isles
we all have to learn
how to handle winter’s
deep embrace

and how to hold
and carry
the promise of spring