Tempus fugit; a fact indisputable of a thing irretrievable.
The seasons, to me, are portraits of time’s passage.
It is the second of two “stick seasons” this month, here in New Hampshire. The first one comes after the leaves fall in October, and the world turns grey, ever colder and darker as we await winter’s white peace. The second arrives in April when the ground is grey again, the precursors to splendor just beneath its surface.
Dynamic portraits of time’s flight, the seasons.
Here’s a static one I found this week while doing some spring cleaning:
me, circa 1983
and, a favorite poem on the subject:
TO THE VIRGINS, TO MAKE MUCH OF TIME
by Robert Herrick
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old time is still a-flying:
And this same flower that smiles to-day
To-morrow will be dying.
The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,
The higher he’s a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he’s to setting.
That age is best which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse, and worst
Times still succeed the former.
Then be not coy, but use your time,
And while ye may go marry:
For having lost but once your prime
You may for ever tarry.
