The fruitless blizzard has fallen thicker by this year. Its, pillow-faintness covering, all and everything, in, itâ€™s vastly and nonsensical wake. It fading winds the last thing all feel for the coming nights of winter.
Trees bear from the harshness of autumns falling. The lake and small streams, frozen, mirroring in a backwards parallel reflection. Though, if looking carefully, the rivers move on, without much care of clear weight bearing down on it.
A stone bridge, made by man long ago, weathers down to match nothing but the towers fall back. For that they stand so tall, just within inches of gracing the sky, to what others would say is a patch on the shoulder of greetings.
Lenient chirps of small dusky feathered swallows and buttery bared finches echo clearly through the day, knowing well their neighbors the steely spiked pigeons will guide them to where a near meal can be found.
A dim glow of the sun is setting, giving such warmth, that this white season could never do. The towers inner lights and the lamps of the park, mix with the sun, in what could be only seen as understanding of one another. Just as the waving hills, trees, waters, plants, have understood that what the seasons must do.
For if the world stayed one thing for so long, how would the start of something new happen, if one does not wish for it. Change is something that comes in many forms. Intentional or something far, from, that it is not known by man. Itâ€™ll happen, for that we must take it, head on.
Just as autumns goes, winter comes, and soon later spring, with its warmer sibling summer. A cycle that will forgo and we canâ€™t stop.
All we must do is enjoy it, while we can.
Central Park by Colin Campbell Cooper
Made in the year 1931
Location when painted; Central Park, New York