Category: Autumn 2024

In the blink of an eye, it all could be gone.
And from the looks of things,
the possibility looms large.
But come what may, this scene,
strewn with its countless emerald gifts,
is imprinted on my soul and will sing
the One Song beyond the edge of time.

Trees get to dance, you know.
I’ve seen them with my own eyes
even though they instantly stop
and pretend they were rooted all along.
I caught this one today, decked out
in his viney autumn garb, chanting
the ancient songs of harvest,
of reaping and gathering in.
He was wonderful, and so still when
he spotted me that no part of him moved,
only the vine wound around him
fluttering in the dry breeze.
I walked on, pretending I believed
he was nothing more than the
broken trunk of a weathered tree.
But the song of his spirit followed me
across the whole, broad valley.

Here, in the pine woods,
standing at the feet of giants,
it’s impossible to speak.
What could you say anyway?
How could mere words have any value?
“Thank you,” perhaps. But you sense
they already know what’s in your heart.

Autumn’s flags wave from the trees.
The woodland’s floor wears
its first layer of fallen leaves,
fluttering like a convention of butterflies
meeting to trade stories of their flights.
And so the dance goes on,
the dancers giddy in their twirling,
their flamboyant costumes
shining in the afternoon sun,
exposing to all the world
the fire in their joyous souls.

Humans don’t come here,
to this hallowed ground
that, all summer, was the bed
of a lake, covered in water
three feet deep where ducks
and terns swam and raised
their young among the rushes.
The only footprints at all
are hooved ones. So I walk
with reverence and care,
filled with wonder at the sight
of this magical expanse,
so transformed, as it stretches,
so revealed, in the afternoon light
of the late September sun.

Suddenly the earth crunches beneath my boots,
the soft grass covered with newly fallen leaves.
I listen, silently laughing in delight. A year
has passed since this music last played,
this autumn sound, filled with nostalgia
and childhood’s singing joy.

September, dear September,
your last flowers open in salute,
small tokens, but pure and from the earth’s
very heart, in gratitude for the warmth
of your days, the life you nurtured and raised,
the harvest you brought to fruition.
Take them with our thanks as you prepare to go,
to remind you how, in our memories,
you will always be golden and loved.

The soybeans, ready for harvest,
have turned the fields to gold.
I count myself lucky to see them,
glowing like this, from across the lake.
By the next time I stand in this place
they will be gone, and the foliage
on the lake’s bank faded. But today,
here it is, a sweep of color, everything
dancing to the autumn song
of the endless unfolding Yes.

Your first inkling, I suppose,
was a tingling and, a warmth, followed
by an irrepressible urge: Move. Reach.
I imagine your bursting through, the moment
you found yourself enveloped in light.
And still, the urge remaining, intensified
somehow: Move. Reach.
Then the long struggle: cold, heat, drought,
rain, wind and absolute stillness.
And through it all the light returning
with its irresistible song, drawing
your face to turn in its direction.
Mornings of dew and birdsong.
Nights of stars and the traveling moon.
Reach. Move. And now, the fullness,
your great work revealed, these brilliant
petals, this storehouse of seeds
standing as a record of your journey,
and as your crown.

When the world seems to be
falling all around you, get
to higher ground. A new
point of view can change
everything. Where obstacles
stood, spaces occur.
Pathways appear.
Signs emerge to point you
in the right direction.
Release your confusion.
See that it’s all quite wondrous
after all.