Climax and contraction

The last of the year.

As the harvest and the market and the season swell with unbearably sweet ripe fecundity,

At that very moment of climactic eucatastrophe, when the labor and the fullness and the promise of the year are redeemed: cruel ice of winter, mud and blossom of spring, the heat and toil of summer, and all,

That is when the feast is undermined, the seeds of contraction have taken root.

Today the markets flow with fruit. And yet the apple trees are bare beneath the sky until next year.

Today is the last market in my town 'til June, and the suburban markets fold their tents until next year. (The urban greenmarkets will last until the day before American Thanksgiving.)

Today the season swings upon its hinge. Below the surface, winter takes its shape.

That is the way of the great living things, that live while they die and die while they live.