Now is the season of letting go,
of releasing unto time’s stream
all that is lifeless and brittle,
all that no longer serves.

Loose the stained leaves from your story,
the pages of blaming and grudges,
the images of sorrow and regret.
They are but dreams, you know.

Let them go. It’s as easy as waking.
Let them ride the winds like phantoms
into yesterday and fade into her depths.
Fresh tomorrows wait to fill their spaces.
The globe will soon tilt toward the light,
and possibilities will shimmer around us
like snowflakes on a winter morning.

It could just drop right out of the blue,
a revelation you never expected,
one thin, bright shaft of truth
that makes everything clear
once and for all.
You never know.
Pay attention.

Between the last notes of the overture
and the first movement of the next scene,
a quiet descends. The earth sighs
in contentment as she settles in to rest.
The ten thousand leaves have fallen.
Beneath the waters fish seek the depths.
The woodland’s creatures snuggle in their burrows.
Soon snow will come. You can catch its scent.
Everything waits.
What comes next is grandeur.

For all the wondrous variety
that brings us such delight,
for the orange of things and the green,
for the moist and dry, the passing seasons,
for earth and air and sea and sky
and all the things to which they give life,
let us give thanks.

And let us give thanks for thankfulness itself,
and for hearts that can know its fullness.

Let us be open to joy and revelry,
to the touch of a kind word, a caring glance.
Let us sing the connections that bind us,
one to the next, to the next.

Let us celebrate the morning
and the bright dancing air.
Let us applaud the firing neurons
and the shooting stars.
Let us make merry for the day’s music
and the ears that collect its sound.

Oh, let us be glad and grateful
for the endlessly streaming wonders,
for the grand mystery of it all,
and for our being in the very midst of it.

Let us give thanks.

I like waking to November’s fog,
to the way it silently wraps itself
around the trunks of the bare trees,
the fallen ferns and leaves,
filtering the light, caressing
everything with its soft wings,
as it gently whispers,
“Wake, children; wake.

What do you think, love?
It’s my winter look. Personally,
I like the subtlety of it, the seeming
neutrality, with depth and yet
a sense of dance and humor.
Flamboyance is so yesterday.
This is me now. Bare bones.
Take another look, sweetheart.
Tell me what you think.

Twenty years from now, they say,
we won’t need cars. No one
will travel or need to, because
everything will be virtual.
I look at the oak leaves,
pondering the idea that I
may be among the last
of this round of humans
to experience actual nature.
And so I walk and gaze
with deepened reverence,
and more than a touch
of sorrow, watching
the fall.

The geese are gone. They gathered
their young ones and off they went,
honking with joy, their strong wings
lifting them in their great V formations,
heading south. But this place
still bears the feel of their presence.
We leave our imprints on all that we touch.
And standing here on the pond’s edge
among the bleached reeds, I smile,
remembering spring’s fuzzy goslings,
marveling at the way they grew
into elegance in a few short months,
much like the swan in the fairy tale.
A crow calls from a tree across the water.
“Hear! Hear!” he says. “Yes,” I whisper to him,
“I do,” as the sound of geese honking
floats silently above the pond.

On this gift of a day
may the flowing hours
with their sun-sparkled colors
and rippling ribbons of sound,
with their air kissing your face,
its flavors teasing your tongue,
with their perfumes of earth, and water
and sky, on this very day,
may this very hour
bring your heart joy
and contentment and peace.

Throughout the afternoon
I watched the last maple leaf
twirl dizzily in the wind and cold rain,
the trees on the hill above it
swaying in the mighty gusts.
When day’s last light slid into shadow,
it was still holding on. By morning,
the tale would be told.