The Soul’s Autumn: A Life in Seasons

Spring — Childhood

I was born in a spring morning
when the world itself smelled of beginnings.
The first memory I own
is not of faces or words
but of blossoms pressed against the April sky—
arms of trees outstretched
as if they were welcoming me personally.

I was a child of budding rains,
of muddy shoes and small astonishments.
Every puddle was an ocean for ships of paper.
Every raindrop a jewel I wanted to keep.
I believed flowers opened each day
only because I had arrived,
that grass bent beneath my feet
out of play, not surrender.

In those years,
the soul was naive—
not because it knew nothing,
but because it knew too much wonder.
There was no wall between me and the earth—
I lay on it
and felt its heartbeat as my own.
There was no wall between me and tomorrow—
I carried it as lightly as a balloon string,
expecting it always to rise.

That was my spring.
A season of beginnings,
of raw laughter,
of questions that never asked about endings.
I was content then
to grow without knowing
where growth would lead me.

Summer — Youth and Adulthood

Summer burned into me before I knew its name.
It came not as a sunrise but as a blaze—
the years of youth tumbling in
like fire over dry fields.

I was taller now, louder,
ambition raw in me like unripe fruit.
The soul in its summer
does not walk but runs,
does not sip but drinks the sky entire.
And so I did—
spilling into studies,
into work,
into loves too fierce to last.

Those were long days
when I thought sleep
was something the weak indulged in.
Nights shimmering with neon and possibility,
mornings rushed with the urgency
of proving I was becoming someone.

I learned love then,
the dangerous, breathless kind.
Hands clasped under suns
that seemed endless.
Promises whispered
as though seasons could be bent to our will.
I remember the heat of those touches
more than their duration—
for summer teaches abundance,
but abundance always leans toward excess.

I chased the world like a runner
pursuing the finish line
not knowing the race was circular.
Success came in bursts,
failures struck hard,
yet both tasted intoxicating
under the brilliant tyrant of summer.

My soul did not ask for stillness then.
It wanted fire upon fire,
fruit upon fruit,
joy upon joy.
And I lived,
sometimes recklessly,
but always as though
each day were bursting,
ripe to the edge of spoiling.

That was my summer.
Dazzling, restless,
a season that believed in forever
while quietly slipping toward change.

Autumn — Midlife, Maturity

And then,
without announcement,
a wind shifted.
The heat broke,
and I woke one morning
to a quiet I did not recognize.

Autumn had found me.
It came not like a stranger,
but like a reflection—
a self I had avoided in mirrors.
I was older.
The world, too, seemed older.
And suddenly,
life spoke not of gathering more,
but of releasing what I held.

I began to notice what weighed me down—
pursuits that once thrilled me
now felt hollow.
Dreams I had carried for years,
I set gently on the ground,
grateful for their company,
but ready to walk without them.

I looked upward at trees
turning themselves into fire,
not for ambition,
but for beauty in surrender.
And I felt kinship.
I, too, would let go colorfully.

In autumn,
the soul matures into honesty.
It praises not gain,
but clarity.
It counts less, but cherishes more.
My children were my harvest—
their laughter was the fruit
I had not known I was planting.
My failures, too, were harvest—
lessons ripened painfully
but necessary to nourish what endured.

And when regrets rose within me,
I listened to falling leaves.
They taught me
that nothing is wasted
when it returns to the soil.
My losses were not vanishing—
they were becoming soil within me,
fertilizing whatever came next.

Autumn became my truest season.
For here,
I found the soul’s center—
not chasing, not enduring,
but releasing with grace.
I learned life’s most sacred lesson:
To fall is not to fail.
It is to transform.

Winter — Old Age and Passing

Then, quietly,
came winter.

The body slowed,
bones ached against the frost of time.
Names of friends clung to gravestones
while mine whispered behind me,
waiting for its turn.
But winter is not cruel,
it is simply absolute.

The world hushed.
Snow fell.
Memories became my companions.
I walked hallways
haunted not by ghosts,
but by younger selves.
The child of spring still ran ahead,
the youth of summer still burned bright,
the soul of autumn still lingered
in fields of gold.
All of them within me,
none of them lost.

Winter asked nothing except presence.
Sit, it said.
Listen.
Be at peace.

And I did.
I sat by the fire,
not dreaming of endless tomorrows,
but marveling at the small miracle
of every breath I could still hold.

When snow covered the earth,
I saw it differently.
Not the shroud of endings,
but the blanket of waiting.
Underneath those frozen grounds
was spring again—
I could feel it like a heartbeat
humming under ice.

And so I understood:
death was not annihilation,
but continuity.
The soul sheds its final leaf,
steps into silence,
and prepares for a season
beyond naming.

That was my winter.
Still, tender,
a time to gather all seasons
into a single hush.

The Circle — The Soul’s Truth

Looking back,
I see my life was never mine alone.
I was soil in spring,
flame in summer,
gold in autumn,
snow in winter.

I was the cycle,
and the cycle was me.

Yet I return always
to autumn—
the most human season,
the one that does not grow wild like spring,
nor blaze careless like summer,
nor retreat fully like winter,
but stands in the balance:
wise enough to let go,
brave enough to shine
even while fading.

Autumn was where my soul spoke clearest.
In autumn I learned
to forgive time,
to treasure endings,
to bow gratefully to the earth
while knowing
it had already prepared the soil
for my return.

So let the seasons turn—
let leaves fall again,
let snows bury fields,
let blossoms shout their renewal.
I know now
the truest season of the soul
will always be autumn:
the moment where life
and death
and meaning
meet in one luminous surrender.

For we are all
just autumns waiting—
to fall,
to nourish,
to rise again
as something unseen.

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