The Owl

Of course, autumn is a beautiful time of the year,

The foliage is glorious invoking the splendor of color and invariably recalling the delight I found as a child in a new box of Crayola crayons.

Still there is the undeniable thread of sadness, ever so subtly interlaced with the magnificent orange and the robust red glow, that I view in the nearby woods from my window.

It is reminiscent of life, ever so gently flowing by and moving quietly to a conclusion,

Along the way, almost like the leaves now dropping from the trees, fellow pilgrims ease gently into another time and space leaving voids never to be filled or replaced

Their absence evokes both a smile, and pain beyond description.

The pain is both exquisite and poignant as it embraces the memory of love that comes only with a price.

The smile returns when and only if we recall the never forgotten precious gift of time shared with those who departed earlier.

I will ever believe that it is a price all who are blessed to know the joy of love would never regret or reject.

Then I reflect on the words of G.W.F. Hegel who wrote:

"The owl of Minerva spreads its wings only with the falling of the dusk."

And I wonder if it is the Autumn of life or the end of love, when like the colored leaves, dusk begins to fall.