Most poems would have you believe that winter is the ultimate symbol of grief and loss. And I can see why; bitter cold, wilting stems, petals drooping, people retreating into hibernation, the soil seemingly barren, death signified by bare branches where greenery recently prospered. But I believe these quiet days we are nestled in now, these remaining days of autumn, embody the most pertinent expression of loss. Death is anything but palatable, she is a messy provocateur, the great deciduous diva, with nothing sensible or orderly in her demeanour. She is seen in flashes in our final moments before departure from this one wild and precious life (Mary Oliver, duh).
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