The trees are green. Leaves have come alive. Taking in April’s rains and blossoming. Winds stir the branches a bit. Birds sing a spring song. And he sits in front of a window, smoking, watching, as seasons change.

He’s seen the seasons change before; spring to summer, summer to autumn, autumn to winter. It still mystifies him. One morning, the trees are bare, and the next, growth is seen. Colors come into play. He wonders how that happened.

The same is true for fall. Leaves turning gold and red, rust and brown, dying much like he is. Each day, getting closer to the grave.

The old man will be buried among peasants. Thrown in a hole in the ground. A pine box holding bones. Hoping for the soul to wind up in heaven. Conversations with Christ, Paul, and Coltrane. Sweet sounds. Joyful words. A million souls collected. And a light shines on forever, never ending in dark. He is home.

But, for now, he looks out his window. And tulips bloom. The orchid stands alone. Just as he does. Wondering what the new season will bring?