This day has the beauty of a silver bride, attractive though no longer from youth. Glowing, warm with the joy of accomplishment and below it the melancholy of time well spent but still gone by.
The fallen leaves lie like lines of laughter and pain around her eyes and mouth saying I danced light-footed and slender in the delicate pastels of the flowers in the spring wind; I cried and smiled tenderly with the summer rain as the eggs hatched and the calves were born, as I brought forth life and watched it perish or grow.
Trees stand laden against the blue-in-blue sky, with ripe apples and red or black berries nameless to me, sparkling with mother’s pride in the sunlight silently shouting: I sparked this life, I nourished it to completion and in my eyes it is perfection.
The colors are richer, the smells warmer. Not the milder and intoxicating scents of youth in spring or the sweet summer smell of babies and milk, but the spicy, aromatic perfume of ripeness, earthy and strong. Her dress is vibrant with hues of complexity and experience, making her more beautiful in wisdom than ever she was in youth.
Soon more leaves will line her face, all withered and brown. Soon she will lie unmoving, her white shroud a promise of rebirth, and a joy all its own.
But for now she is yet strong this day, warming me and kindling my wonder.
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