It’s not that simple. Leaving rarely means arriving. It’s rather a process where you lose so much until you can eventually gain a little. If it had to be a season, it would be Fall. Only that the shedding has little hope for the sprouts and therefore it’s painful. Especially if you have this awareness. Of each and every leaf that falls without the hope or belief that there will be that necessary sap in the stalks to bring those leaves back to life and continue the cycle of life. With all this shedding, there is a perpetual gasping for oxygen, an emphysema of sorts. A shortage of oxygen, no leaves. I would say that more is lost than gained. I know, trust me dear friend, that poetry thrives in irony but, for the purposes of this post, I have to say this – despite of -or, let’s be fair, because of- Elizabeth Bishop: “The art of losing is indeed hard to master. It is a serious disaster.” You have no idea how much.