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In the mood for decay

By Miss Woodville.

Tis the season, now, when many a plant deflower, wither, surrender. Deprived of the soils nurture they no longer flaunt their neck, they no longer seduce with their radiant color, they no longer sway their limber bodies in a breeze. Now, brittle, stiff, grey - and beautiful, they stand. Like silhouettes of their former selves, like statues, stoic and upright, gracious on the backdrop of everything virile and new. Waiting. Waiting for that gust of wind that will send their seeds along on waves of air, assuring some sort of continuity in that field, on that land, in this world. And then they break. Their bodies bow goodbye, bend to the ground, and enter their hereafter - of land you have come to the earth you must be, to nurture what nurtured thee.


My father died not long ago, and with his death, and the desire to be near him, regardless, my eyes don’t search for, but immediately find, in the landscape, what will soon depart. His aging body, I can’t tend to, I can’t take care of, it’s gone. I can’t tend to a withering plant in nature either, but I can pay respect and gratitude to it, for having been here, and somehow through it, honor my father, for everything he was in life, from beginning to end. The end as we know it. Cause what seed one day will land on his grave, find its way to his ashes and grow, we don’t know….

Photo by Tomoya Matsuura

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