Autumn.

Keats wrote a beautiful ode to it.

‘To Autumn’ is reflective of life as a season whereby there is growth, harvest and death.

Is it strange we appreciate the hues of autumn as much as the vibrancy of spring?

I’ve observed the final moments. Twice. Death smiles at us all. Do we dare smile back?

Today, I decide to simply sit with a fistful of death, and meditate. On the harvest.

Death is beautiful. For in it, ebbs a tide of gratitude for life.