My Heart Still Sings for Autumn

a sestina

 

Every year I think that spring

will be the season to win my heart.

Winter here is long, after all,

and I do so rejoice to see the flowers

pushing the cold earth aside with

their tender determination to live.

 

I wish that we all might live

with the purpose of a trillium in spring,

our veins pulsing with

molten nectar, our hearts

opening like flowers –

at the risk of ruin, risking it all.

 

Why are we so scared of all

that it takes to truly live?

What is required of the flowers

to brave the dangers of spring?

Nothing but instinct, heart,

and a certain wildness within.

 

But perhaps we confuse instinct with

courage – buds and blossoms are all

born from necessity, but the heart

is where human courage lives.

The true growth of spring

may lie in facing the inevitable fall of the flowers.

 

What, then, when flowers

fade to summer, and we are left with

only memories of spring?

Our task is this: through all

the seasons, we must live

as though we have among us but one heart.

 

It is possible to give away your heart.

Follow the example of the flowers

that seem to die – yet live,

persisting against all odds – with

the closure of autumn an equal rival to all

the openings of spring.

 

I live with this reminder; even with

flowers at my feet I find that, after all,

my heart still sings for autumn in the spring.