The seasons change in an alchemist’s patois – using a language that is rich in subtleties and mystery. It is a sum of transmutations that have been distilled in an earthly alembic ever since the world spun itself into existence.
The change is as delicate yet invasive as a drop of paint falling into a bowl of water, spreading in a fading bouquet of coils and tendrils. The cusp between seasons is a time of winsome details, tiny births and hushed deaths. There is an anthology of detail to regale one of what is to come, a silent speech of promises to be fulfilled once the threshold is crossed. This new dialogue, rough and poignant, contains a revelation of detail that curves into being every three months. It begins with a change as delicate as twilight dripping into dawn, as elusive as the stars twisting into a new formation.
It is on a periphery, a borderland familiar yet altered, a soft and gradual rift. If one is clever enough to look and see, to gather together the many small details like a bouquet the change does not go ignored and Nature’s herculean sweat will not be wasted. Nor will go unheeded the four conversions of the year: fraught with as much magic as a forgotten chemist’s lab, hung with colored glass, philosophies and saucers of bubbling gold.