Top 10 Beautiful Essays on the Transitional Moments of the Seasons

The early summer weather is as fickle as a young girl; the scorching heat of the day is soon replaced by a cool autumn-like night, with winds picking up, thunder rumbling, and lightning flashing more intensely. Then, a heavy downpour begins. As I lie in bed under the fan, I groggily search for a thin blanket to cover myself before I finally drift off into a deep sleep.

The next morning, the trees, once worn down by days of relentless sunlight, are rejuvenated by the rain, as if restored to their youthful strength. The rice plants, once drooping from the heat, now rise again with a smile after the first rain of the season. The rain nourishes the plants, helping them absorb the nutrients they need to nourish the grain and ensure a bountiful harvest. It strengthens the young rice plants for the coming summer-autumn season, and hastens the ripening of fruits. The rain, as it falls over the fields, provides a symphony of sounds, from the chirping crickets to the croaking frogs, all preparing for the breeding season. Whenever I walk past the pond or field, the frogs and toads leap into the water, hiding in the mud. It’s no wonder some people call the transition season the time of joyful sounds.

After the rain, the sun returns, but droplets of water remain on the branches and leaves, sparkling like pearls as the sunlight filters through. Everything feels renewed after the seasonal rain. I recall a saying from my grandmother, “Water from the roots is constant, but nothing compares to the life-giving rain from the heavens.” The balance between sun and rain, the harmony of yin and yang, creates a season of growth and renewal.

The heavy downpours of early summer cause the rivers to swell with muddy water, while fish emerge from their hiding places, playing in the rushing stream. People gather by the river, with baskets, nets, and scoops in hand, eager for the catch that will bring an extra dish to the meal. On the riverbanks, the lamps reflect brightly on the water’s surface. Every year, after the first rain, I return home with a basket full of fish. My grandmother would carefully choose and prepare the fish, frying them to create the most delicious dishes. Her fried fish was unmatched in flavor. But now, fish have become scarce. To catch them, people use poisons and electric shocks, which prevent fish from reproducing. Even those fish that survive these methods struggle to breed.

With each passing year, the seasonal rains over the rivers and fields bring fewer fishermen than before. My basket has been hanging unused by the fireplace for many years. The thunder and lightning no longer call the fishermen to the water. This silence fills my heart with an indescribable sadness. Fish, shrimp, and frogs are increasingly rare, and there are fewer creatures to protect the rice plants from pests. During the seasonal rains, worms and frogs that crawl onto the roads are often crushed by the rush of car tires. The rains make the world lush and vibrant again, but they also signal a time of loss as the cycle of life moves forward, leaving behind the sounds of the season's joyful chorus.

Nông Quốc Lập

The last days of autumn gently pass by on a path filled with the scent of milk flowers and golden ripe fruit. Walking through this season, one can't help but marvel at the beauty of nature in this transitional moment. The fall is almost over, and winter arrives unexpectedly. The two seasons, autumn and winter, bid farewell at the edge of the white grass-covered riverbank. The atmosphere is filled with a sweet and melancholy beauty. The air is crisp, like the eyes of a dreamer, soft and fleeting.

In this cool weather, the space seems veiled by a thin mist. Fresh and cool, it invites one to pause and admire the Bạch Đằng River at dawn. This river, once the last stretch of the Sặt River before flowing into the Thái Bình River, during the flood season would swell, with waves crashing wildly and the water appearing boundless. The concrete dike built during French rule looked fragile and could easily break. Later, authorities redirected the river’s flow, and the flood warnings stopped. The children no longer swam in the river.

The golden sunlight spreads across the streets. The wind shifts from northwest to northeast, gentle yet perceptible. The air is crisp, and the chill touches the skin. The milk flower blooms with surprise, and a light, thin scarf is draped over the shoulders of a girl. Everywhere you look, beauty surrounds you. My hometown is growing in beauty. I love it so much; I don’t ever want to leave.

The call of the cuckoo bird lingers, as if to hold onto the autumn. My footsteps feel light, as though they carry me into a fairy tale. Every time I hear the cuckoo’s call, it evokes images of a golden palace with young women wearing jeweled pins. The king’s mistake led to the kingdom’s downfall, and the princess died tragically, her spirit never finding peace. Even today, her sorrow echoes in the cuckoo’s call, 'Regret... Regret.'

The sunlight blankets the fields ready for harvest. The earthy scent of the land fills the air. The land has given birth to my village, and the people of my village are deeply connected to it. The land will always provide for us.

At the end of autumn, the leaves fall more abundantly. The golden leaves flutter like a farewell to autumn. Flocks of birds return to their nests. Insects begin their eternal song. It is the breath of the countryside, carried into the quiet air. The wind blows harder now, shaking the bare branches as if signaling that autumn is nearly over, and a fleeting beauty is passing by. People wear warm clothes, their faces tinged with a rosy glow.

The days of the autumn-winter transition are enchanting. Is it hot? No. Is it cold? Not exactly. The weather changes unexpectedly, like a beautiful, capricious girl—sometimes sunny, then suddenly rainy, and vice versa. The old saying calls it 'cloud-shadow rain.' The last autumn rains are gentle, nothing harsh. They cool the skin and seep into the soul, awakening a longing for love.

Autumn is beautiful, but the last days of autumn are even more so. No matter how many poets and writers have praised autumn, it never seems enough. I love the late autumn days, I love the transition to winter. I love the scent of ripening rice. I love the fragrant milk flowers, the sweet and intense scent of the yellow flowers. One can almost drink in the essence of the homeland. I even love the village girls, fresh and radiant without makeup, their faces flushed with natural beauty.

The moon at the end of autumn is always the brightest, the most beautiful of the year. The sky stretches endlessly. The cuckoo’s call echoes across the river, and the moonlight shines through the leaves, casting patterns on the street like a magical tapestry. The moon is as graceful as a noblewoman—slightly ripe, yet irresistibly alluring. Walking in the moonlight feels like floating into an infinite space. The distant sound of a piano fills the air, deeply moving the heart.

The moon shines on the porch, casting its glow on the street corners. The moon seems to pull people together. The wedding season has arrived, and many couples vow eternal love. Lovers speak softly to one another, and husbands and wives exchange tender words. It feels as though flowers bloom around them. Smiles are brighter, words are sweeter, and eyes sparkle with love. Suddenly, I feel a warmth in my heart, filled with affection.

I wish the days of seasonal transition could last forever. I wish the autumn moon would stay high in the sky. The air thick with the fragrance of rice, sweet and tangy, wraps around every step I take. I wander through fields of golden rice that my grandmother, mother, and sister labored over. During these days, my mother would check her warm clothes from last year, carefully inspecting each button and stitch. She would say, 'The New Year is coming.' Oh, how her voice touches the depths of my being. People in the city cannot know that the autumn-winter transition is the hardest time for farmers. The heat of the next harvest is already looming behind, and many nights are spent working late into the morning.

Some people say, 'Autumn comes and goes, and then it returns. The golden sunlight, the bright moon, and the cool breeze never change.' But that’s a misunderstanding, a big mistake. Each autumn is different from the last, and this year’s autumn cannot be the same as next year’s. That’s why so many poets and writers have poured countless efforts and ink into praising autumn, yet they can never capture all its beauty.

The past two years, the COVID-19 pandemic has taken away many of our pleasures. The ability to exercise outdoors, sip coffee on the sidewalk in the morning, and watch the golden sunlight spread across the streets—those simple joys were lost. But it’s alright. We all understand that 'Fighting the pandemic is like fighting an enemy.' We make sacrifices today to secure a stable future.

The final days of autumn, soft and ethereal, always lighten the heart, helping us overcome life’s bumps and curves, smoothing out anger and regret. Positions of power and prestige are nothing. Chasing after status is meaningless. Everything is fleeting. It will all pass. Only autumn remains eternal, with its yellow flowers, green grass, and the vibrant rhythm of life.

Nguyễn Sỹ Đoàn

The autumn has arrived, hasn’t it? In the rush of everyday life, I sometimes pause and find myself surprised by the sight of a golden autumn afternoon, a falling leaf gently landing on someone’s coat, the cool breeze of the early autumn, or the thin mist hanging in the air.

The season has turned to autumn!

Suddenly, memories from my childhood surge like a river, flooding my mind with sweet nostalgia. I find myself lost in the recollections of a time when life seemed so simple and joyful. The memories of a childhood spent in a village, filled with laughter and tears, are so dear to me. I long to hear the school bell ring on the first day of the year, to share a bite of a golden guava with a friend, or to taste the soft green rice pounded by my mother’s hands. The memories are so faint yet so clear, like the glance of a shy eye, quickly turned away.

Autumn has come!

Leaving behind the busyness of everyday life, I hurriedly return to the small village filled with memories. The river of my youth still flows slowly, just like time itself. I search through my memories—where are the days of herding buffalo and picking grass? Where are the summer afternoons spent riding buffaloes across the Trà Lý river? The old village shrine is still quiet and still. Where are the sounds of frogs croaking loudly as autumn approaches? Where is the ancient banyan tree, casting its shadow over the village pond, calling the birds to build their nests as autumn arrives? Now, all that remains are memories, carried by the wind, distant and fleeting. Will we ever dance together in the traditional bamboo dance under the bright autumn moon again?

Autumn has come!

I too am entering autumn, slowly, with longing and hesitation. A dried mo cau leaf falls in the corner of the yard, carving a memory into my heart. A memory of a time when we played the game of mo cau together. Oh, mo cau, though time has passed, my heart still remembers you, still feels the sadness of the past.

How could I forget? The memories are too deep, too strong to fade away. Quietly, I turn over each memory, rushing to relive those moments, my heart heavy with longing and emotion. I wish for one thing—to return to that carefree childhood once more.

Collected

It's that time of the year again when the sky softens, the sun is gentler, and the winds blow freely. I call it the season of falling in love.

After enduring the fever of the changing seasons every April and November, I find myself feeling fragile, petty, and more sensitive. Sometimes, I feel like I’m the only lonely soul on Earth.

I fall in love not because of the season, but because the season urges me to be excited. I wait quietly, holding back my emotions. The season tells me to find a reason...

For me, feeling a spark of emotion is the most perplexing experience in life. I never know when it will strike, can’t control it, and can’t stop it from flooding my heart. There are people who make me grateful for a whole decade, and others who pass by, leaving me wishing to hold onto that feeling for a lifetime. The way my eyes search through a crowd for just one person, and how that person gently rejects me—these emotions I turn into sweet-sour, spicy candy, and tuck them deep in my heart (where there are no ants, only packets of desiccants, keeping my memories from fading).

Some feelings arrive with force and leave just as quickly, leaving me feeling hollow and frustrated. I once thought that the feelings this season brings would be the same. But they turned out to be like sipping coffee, warming my heart slowly, letting the warmth gently seep in, until I exhale in soft, steady breaths. And it stays warm, comforting my fragile heart.

There are a few memories in the past that I consider the happiest moments of my life (in my twenty-something years). Around this time of year, I sometimes think back to them, and it makes me feel a bit lonely. I’ve always been afraid of too much happiness. I’ve often thought that I was cursed, unworthy of love. But without those memories, I wouldn’t have a stronghold to lean on whenever I feel broken or lost.

Honestly, it’s not the weather that makes me sad. The strong winds outside blow away all emotions, leaving emptiness. And so, loneliness remains the chronic illness of youth.

Lemon Drop

It begins with the cool breeze of autumn, the air turning crisp and fresh. The late autumn sunlight shines in a golden hue, clear and radiant like honey poured over everything, as if the world is covered in a soft, shimmering golden veil.

The sky is high and endlessly blue. People outside have begun to wear light jackets and thin sweaters, while others still walk around in their shirts. A gentle breeze carries the fragrance of blooming flowers along the street.

Suddenly, the wind howls through the night, beating urgently against the window. The northeast winds arrive, signaling the start of winter.

When morning comes, everything is painted in a pale white, and the wind carries dark purple leaves, rushing across the road. People walk faster, trying to escape the chill creeping through their clothes. On misty days, the sky is overcast, and the world feels like it’s hidden under a giant blanket. Tiny droplets of water cling to everything, from hair to clothes, like little beads of dew. The mist over West Lake drifts softly across the vast lake, and the trees along Thanh Niên Road shine darker under the light rain. Amid the bustling streets, humble little tea stands and vendors with ginger candy or peanut candy emerge, marking the essence of Hanoi's winter. The feeling of contentment when, after days of rain, the sun breaks through is indescribable. The winter sunlight, soft and mellow like the yellow of mustard flowers, makes everything come alive, illuminating the trees and flowers. A fresh, sweet warmth fills the air, and people hang their blankets on rooftops, allowing the sun to soak them in. In the suburbs, the sun spreads across fields of fresh vegetables, brightening the rural landscape with vibrant greens, yellows, and reds. A feeling of lightness and joy fills the heart, and one might find themselves humming a lively tune, realizing just how much nature influences our emotions.

In summer, people stay inside with air conditioners or lie on the cool tile floors, trying to escape the oppressive heat. But in winter, we close the windows, turn on the warm yellow lights, and huddle under blankets, feeling the warmth of family surrounding us, making the cold seem distant. In my musings about happiness, I realize it’s not just an abstract concept—it's something real, often found in small, tangible moments that require care and patience. It’s about thinking carefully, as the saying goes, 'What you sow is what you reap.'

I remember the winters from many years ago. In the biting cold, my siblings and I would huddle together in bed, covered with extra layers of straw. We’d share roasted sweet potatoes, savoring each bite as we listened to the howling wind. Time passes quietly, and life moves faster than we realize. What seemed like the coldest winter yesterday suddenly becomes a distant memory. And each year, the new season brings its own subtle changes in how we experience it, reminding me of a line my grandmother often said:

‘Do not lament your fate, for as long as there is life, there is always hope.’
Trần Thu Hương

There's something about the moment when spring gives way to summer that stirs so many emotions—it's as though both nature and our hearts undergo a transformation in color, sound, and rhythm.

The blurred boundary between the two seasons often catches us by surprise, awakening memories and emotions we didn’t realize were there. Living slowly allows us to connect with a deeper force within, enhancing our quality of life and the joy of living. A life lived fully is a continuous motion, a hidden energy that fuels every breath.

The change between seasons is a harmonious connection, a blending of one into another. I find the transition between spring and summer more beautiful than simply the change of seasons. Spring, the season of growth, gradually yields to summer, the time of flourishing. In spring, the buds and green shoots emerge, while summer bursts forth with colorful blooms. Spring’s flowers—white jasmine, lemon blossoms, lilies, and grapefruit flowers—delicately release their fragrance, quietly and gently. In contrast, summer’s flowers—bright red flame tree blossoms, purple bougainvillea—are bold and vivid, accompanied by the sounds of birds calling, the cuckoo announcing the arrival of ripe fruit, and the restless croaking of frogs near ponds. And the cicadas—whose songs echo through the heat of summer—play their tune, buried beneath the earth until they are ready to perform their concert.

Summer is like the vibrant energy of a young man, full of passion yet unrestrained. Perhaps it’s during love's youth that one feels the seasonal shift most profoundly, from spring to summer. For those in midlife, the shift might come with autumn, and for the elderly, winter arrives. The weather, like our moods and bodies, has moments of sudden change that mirror our own internal rhythms.

As spring turns into summer, the sky seems to stretch wider, while the rivers narrow. The contrast of high and low, cold and warm, wide and narrow—these are not just measurements of space or temperature, but of balance, creating harmony in the rhythm of change. The shift from spring to summer also brings with it the last chill of early spring, a final cold snap that weaves in a folk tale of a character named Nàng Bân, who lovingly made clothes for her husband, weaving a story of deep affection.

The poet Xuân Diệu once marveled at the sight of a young fruit high in the trees, asking, 'How does something come from nothing?' This mystery of nature, of life, creates a harmonious beauty, even in the soul of a person facing the vast beauty of the world around them.

The transition from spring to summer is also when an elderly mother brings out the heavy winter coats and blankets to dry them under the sun, preparing for the next cycle of seasons. The light spring drizzle that brings new growth is soon replaced by the thunderous, electric storms that charge the air, signaling the coming of summer’s downpours. The rain itself becomes a bridge between the two seasons, with a rainbow arching between them, a symbol of fleeting beauty.

The seven-colored rainbow is not just an illusion; it’s a reflection of the rhythm of seven notes on a scale, echoing through the natural world and harmonizing with the memories and love for life that reside in each of us.

Nguyễn Ngọc Phú

At the end of April, as spring fades into summer, the weather becomes unpredictable, shifting between hot and cold, rain and sunshine. Just like the weather, human emotions can be as erratic and unpredictable.

The small, stunted magnolia tree at the end of the garden still manages to bloom, its fragrance drifting on the wind and stirring emotions that are hard to name. A light sadness, like a fine thread of silk, rises unexpectedly, filling my eyes. Perhaps it is the quiet solitude of the deep alley, the way it makes me feel lost and adrift, like the lonely tree standing alone, silently exhaling its fragrance into the stillness.

At night, I lie listening to a few wistful love songs and wander out to the edge of the village. The neighbor’s old magnolia tree is not in full bloom, but it still offers enough fragrance to stop me in my tracks, breathing in the pure, sweet scent that fills the air. Memories flutter like wind and clouds: "Have you ever come back here, standing under the vast sky, hearing the wind sing through the trees, reminding me of childhood days..." Sometimes, a distant voice echoes from deep within, bringing back old feelings, as the days stretch on, filling the heart with nostalgia. At other times, it feels like the heart is empty, but in truth, it never is. The heart still beats, and the mind still moves, whether simply or complexly. "A day like any other. Life as light as smoke. A day like any other. Carrying a soul in tatters..." Each day, we watch as the hours shift, flowing through moments of stillness or noise. Our eyes take in the colors, our ears hear the myriad sounds. And then we remind ourselves, "Don’t despair, don’t despair. The golden sunlight fades like a personal sorrow." What is there to despair about, in this life of dust and mortality? Even the fragile yellow flower at the farthest horizon is like a farewell, soft and delicate.

Without contradictions, life would not be life. Just like love, where sweetness carries the foreboding of pain. Without a touch of bitterness, sweetness would cease to exist. Through countless days, we come to understand: "Love is sweet. Sweet on the lips. Love is bitter. Bitter in life..." Isn’t it simple, isn’t it true, my dear?

Đỗ Thu Hằng

Every year, as the seasons change, the mountain town of Pleiku transforms into a vibrant spectacle. From every corner, alley, and street, both in the city and the outskirts, the air is filled with thousands of butterflies. Their fragile yellow wings flutter in the breeze, casting a shimmering glow that softens the paths and roads. This sight has become an enduring symbol, touching the hearts of both the locals and the travelers who have marveled at this beautiful land.

Pleiku seems to offer something unique in every season, attracting visitors. For those who choose to stay, the bond with this land deepens into a profound love. While the occasional rain and overcast skies may feel inconvenient, the soothing rhythm of nature at night, accompanied by the sound of rain, more than compensates for the occasional discomfort. The sound of countless raindrops nourishes memories and the soul, becoming an integral part of life’s essence.

This time of year, Pleiku’s weather feels like an unpredictable young woman, alternating between sunshine and rain. The seasonal transition is slow, with the changes in the landscape often catching people off guard. Those who are sensitive often choose quiet afternoons to watch the brilliant red sunsets over the windmill fields, while others prepare for sudden rains by adding layers and carrying rain gear. The brief showers may quickly pass, but they leave the streets gleaming with water. The rich scent of wet earth rises strongly, which, though unpleasant for some, gives the plants a fresh glow as they bask in the late afternoon sun.

I find the seasonal change in the Central Highlands particularly fascinating. If the shimmering yellow butterflies bring visual joy, the sound of cicadas fills the air, bringing life to the landscape. While the sound of cicadas may annoy some during the scorching summer heat, listening to their chorus during the changing season reminds us of nature’s tireless commitment to life. After spending years underground, the cicadas emerge, their final song announcing the arrival of summer before they leave behind seeds for the earth, completing their life cycle.

Though my body may not be strong enough to explore every corner of the fertile red basalt plains, I am fortunate to have friends who share my love for nature. Together, we’ve experienced the mountains, hills, waterfalls, and streams. These experiences are truly a joy. On summer nights, lying on soft pine-needle beds, gazing up at the starry sky, one feels a deep sense of tranquility. This feeling is entirely different from watching a sunrise in any busy city. For those who choose to camp in the misty forests, with waterfalls constantly spraying in the background, a warm cup of fragrant tea becomes an unforgettable memory. The sense of witnessing the first rays of sunlight on towering mountains requires endurance and strength, both physical and mental. The climate in the Central Highlands seems to cater to adventurers, offering them the chance to explore and conquer nature’s vastness.

Older individuals or those with injuries tend to fear the change in weather. They often refer to such days as uncomfortable, as it takes time for their bodies to adjust to the shifting patterns. This universal need for adaptation is a reminder for everyone to recognize their body's signals, take necessary precautions, and build resilience.

The moments of transition are brief, gently arriving and departing over a few weeks, in tune with the natural rhythm of the earth. The changing scenery is merely a reflection of nature’s cyclical process. Sometimes, the beauty of nature is seen through the lens of human emotion, with a deeper sensitivity. Those who appreciate nature’s beauty in its transition are often those with more sensitive souls, who perceive the world with a fragile and poignant awareness.

As I sit here, typing these words, outside the yellow butterflies continue to flutter joyfully over delicate white flowers. The air is filled with the lively sound of cicadas calling for summer. This harmonious interplay brings a quiet joy, reminding us of the small gifts that nature provides. The changing seasons continue to stir my soul, filling it with wonder.

Ngô Thanh Vân

This morning, Hanoi felt both strange and familiar, as many streets were blanketed in the pure white petals of the March flowers, or 'sua' blossoms. In the cool breeze, March brings a fresh spirit to the world, rejuvenating nature and the earth. March marks the time when the seasons shift.

Throughout the winter, the 'sua' trees had quietly awaited this moment. As spring arrived, they suddenly burst into life, unfurling thousands of snow-white flowers. Walking along streets covered in the white hue of these blossoms, I sometimes feel as if I'm in Eastern Europe, amidst snow. The immaculate white flowers adorn the Phan Dinh Phung, Hoang Hoa Tham, and Thanh Nien streets, contrasting with the ancient, dark brown rooftops. Occasionally, the flowers gently cascade onto the second-floor balconies of old buildings. On certain days, when life's pressures weigh heavily on my mind, I wander back to these nostalgic streets. Suddenly, fragile petals drift through the wind, landing gently on my hair and shoulders, offering a tender comfort. I catch a petal, smiling quietly, as my troubles seem to ease just a little.

In March, the spring sunshine sparkles joyfully over the baskets of fragrant pomelo flowers passing by. The scent of the pomelo flower stirs up memories of youthful days, fresh and full of life. The baskets, laden with the fragrant blossoms, are carried by vendors, their fragrance winding through the narrow alleys of Hanoi. The deep, lingering scent of the pomelo flower stirs emotions, making one's heart ache with nostalgia for years gone by.

March, with its warm sunlight gently strolling down the streets, sees the delicate purple flowers of the 'ban' tree shyly welcoming spring. Some streets in Hanoi are entirely covered in the soft purple hue of these flowers. From a distance, it looks like a fluttering swarm of butterflies, joyfully playing in the spring breeze.

There's an old saying: 'When March comes, the red flowers fall, and the elderly fold their blankets.' Could it be that the blossoming of the 'gao' flowers marks the end of the cold winter? On some spring nights, when the drizzle falls lightly, the 'gao' flowers still seem to glow under the faint streetlights, creating a strange sense of warmth.

Hanoi has a few famous old 'gao' trees. For years, every time I pass the National History Museum, I pause to admire the ancient 'gao' tree standing proudly. Its strong, towering form stands boldly, while the bright red flowers stand out against the museum's ancient architecture, forming a fascinating picture of time's passage. When the 'gao' flowers bloom, the Giải Phóng – Phương Mai intersection becomes bathed in red, creating a poetic scene amid the hustle and bustle of the city.

In March, it’s not just the flowers but also the changing leaves that create a vibrant, ever-changing landscape. On the streets of Hanoi in March, I often see the last crimson leaves of winter hanging onto branches, while new buds slowly awaken. Some mornings, I stand still, admiring the golden 'loc vung' leaves carpeting the sidewalks. I glance up to find fresh, green buds peeking from the branches, as though they’re winking at passersby. The leaves of the 'sau' and 'xa cu' trees also begin to turn yellow, signaling the season of leaf changes. Slowly, the trees shed their old leaves, donning new, fresh green foliage.

In March, the wind is gentle, the fragrance is rich, and the world feels pure and rejuvenated, as nature comes alive again. Hanoi embraces the loving transition between seasons, like the most beautiful spring love song.

Vy Anh