The Park.

The cold and frosty morning with little icy diamonds clinging to grass blades and window panes envelopes me. As I walk across the park, a carpet of golden autumnal leaves now a muddy brown and crisp with the cold scrunch under my feet. The mist slowly settles around me like a sheathe of soft silk, with a gently sighing swish. The once pregnantly lush trees are now bereft and solemn and quiet like nuns at prayer, contemplating this mystery that is life. The same park, the same trees, a different season.
I notice a lone figure at the far end and for some unknown reason walk towards him and then stop, unwilling to ruffle the stillness surrounding him. Eyes closed, a million rifts and ridges crisscrossing the terrain, worn with care. Each rift would have a story to tell but mostly it was quelled and instantly subjugated and I continued, silent in the silence. Suddenly out of nowhere burst out a little boy kicking a football and ran towards the man on the bench. A shout of joy and the eyes snapped open, and the ridge-riven face creased into a smile, the careworn lines now fanning out, a joyous weave all across the riven terrain, the face. Same face, different season.

Life has its seasons and life has its reasons....