The seasons press on and so shall I

Forsythia's bright yellow, Magnolia's waxy purple and Dogwood's tiny white, dotted flowers will give way to fully leaved willows who weep for loss, while maples strut.

The children of summer are full of ice cream cones and wet towels as they run  poolside, while their parents click on laptops, talk on cellphones and eat gelato at poolside, yearning for undreamed possibilities and bored with those close at hand.

During the last days of summer, all the boat shops board up and school children wear plaid and carry book bags, while their parents don uniforms of grey and tan, or black on black, disgusted with their lives and press on, out of duty.

The death of everything comes when maples once majestic, green and youthful, now sport matronly colors of orange, yellow, and red.

The death of everything comes when blankets of snow slumber over us all and caress what was once cozy but now stifles and chokes: You must get out, get out fast, get out now, to save the potted clay shards of your life.

The red maple is the fire maple that promises new life come next spring, and it is this fire-red maple I shall take with me when I take my magic carpet and fly for parts unknown.