This time of year, when the clouds cover the sky
and the nights come all too soon, it can feel
as if all the color has drained from the world.
The summer song of the trees has given way
to their clattering in the cold wind.
At your feet, only faded, fallen leaves remain.
The brush that surrounds you is gray
and tangled with burrs and knife-edged thorns.
Even the pond is dull, its inhabitants
and visitors asleep now or gone.
But if you follow the path and keep climbing,
wound around the trees to the east
you’ll come across a patch of bittersweet vines,
their berries looking like lanterns gleaming
through the gloom. The old timers say
there’s a legend that if you gaze at them
and listen for what they have to say
they will tell you secrets that fill you
with understanding. “Give it a try,” they say.
“Those lanterns don’t grow here for nothing.
It could be that they’re meant for you.”