Hard frost arrived. Winterkill occurred and, by silent shattering of cells, death came to another life season.
In the new gold light of rising sun that burned silver killing frost back to harmless dew, Annie stared on the vestige of her, day before, verdant garden. Tomatoes, heirlooms of forgotten lineage, who night before shone green and rich in upward growth to last of sunset’s light lain slumped, dark, and lifeless in their basket lattices for supporting vines. Pole beans appeared as sacrifice, self-bound in wrap upon wooden spires.
Annie gathered the last of garden’s fruit. All was ended, as had been and would be again; and in the matted death, she felt a sadness for season’s end.
Still, in the flesh of world-killed fruit held dormant seeds to life. Annie knew this to be true; seed prepared, guarded, and hidden from winter’s harm; waiting life-grains she would save for when warmth and season for life returned.
Death was but enabling for a new beginning, a clearing and killing of the old making way for new; as had been and would always be, an eternal order and design giving balance to existence: like night and day, sun and moon, good and evil. For one to gain meaning, one must know as well the other.
And so it was with life’s seasons.
Annie looked on the matted death and reflected on a season of labor and enjoyments. She remembered its bounty and held gratitude in witness to its end.
After, Annie thought no more on season’s end. She accepted winter’s kill then thought to resurrection—new spring—when warmth returned and life, in bounty, rose again.