Seasons Change

My fingers tremble in the cold
as I stack the stones in a slanted wall.
I’m accompanied by the hummingbirds
who search for the mystery in garden weeds
sprouting within the cracks of this wall.
It’s late fall,
the weather prepares for its funeral
and places on its nightcap
and blows out the candle of sunlight
earlier in the day
to sleep in longer.
To sleep in longer.
To sleep in just a bit longer.
I turn to my friend
and ask him about the season.
He says it’s his favorite time
as he stacks another stone in place
with his gloved hands and
strong breathing.
I agree with him and
take pride in the wall
we’ve almost finished.
We started in January
and just kept putting it off
through the year.
Kept putting it off
kept putting it off,
just kept putting it off.
But as the leaves die around us
in a ceremony of suicide
we find that our efforts combined
give us that closure,
that strong sense of accomplishment.
When do you think we’ll be finished?
I ask my friend.
I stare at his face in confusion,
as it has become gray and mist-like
with his eyes in a tremble
and his body collapses
and the rocks he holds
crushes his hands,
crushes his hands,
crushes his gray gloved hands.
My god, what’s wrong!
I shout as I run to him.
I think back and see that
that was the wrong question
to ask at that time.
Everything was natural,
it was the season
of death,
fall and falling,
fall and falling,
fall and falling...
that killed my friend.
I finished that wall of death
in the dying throes
of December,
amidst the snow
and presence of fallen trees.


2015, Change, Contemporary Death, Fall, Friend, Jennings, Parker, Poem, Poetry, Seasons, Snow, Wall, Winter,

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