The Power of Might

It’s the season of falling leaves. The big oaks are shedding, getting rid of their winter coat, and putting on new growth. Soon, there will be thousands of new leaves and oak tassels, and then the tassels will fall, staining the porch and the drive. I won’t mind. Because it’s spring and beneath the big oaks with their news leaves, the spiderworts will put on a show of purple and gold followed by the crimson blooms of the cedar sage.

And the soft winds of spring will caress the blooms and the new grass and the new growth and maybe we’ll have rain, because we need rain, and it’s cloudy today and feels like rain but we all know how that goes. Promises, promises. But still, there’s hope, because why not? It’s good to believe in the promise of rain, or the promise of love, or the promise of tomorrow. I’m no cynic. I have no idea how I got this way, but I always seem to think things will work out. Again, why not?

I know. It seems hopelessly romantic or blind or some such nonsense. But I start every round of golf thinking I’ll break 80, and every repair with the idea that I can get it done, and every paint job that this will look fine, and the list goes on. Maybe it’s over confidence, can’t really say for sure. I’m just going to land on the idea of hopefulness. The idea that a hard winter will always be followed by spring and the warm days of summer and the cool days of fall and so and so on until one day it ends. For me. As it will be everyone. But, until then, when that time comes. It might rain today.

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