Category: Autumn 2024

No matter what life wrote on your pages today,
there was this, this maple glowing on the corner
of a street somewhere. It was part of today, too,
even if you didn’t see it with your own eyes
or give it a thought. It was here, radiating its glow,
causing a certain light to rise into the air, lifting
its song to a brighter scale. It helped
hold us up. All of us. And it didn’t even care
if any of us knew.

The mornings are filled with fog now
as if the earth were filling her bowls
with some luminescent porridge
to help the sun ward off the autumn chill.
It softens our wakings, letting us linger
in the world of wispy dreams a while
before the illusions of the day solidify
around us, pulling us once more
into the stories of our lives.
The orange of the remaining maple leaves
gleams in the filtered light, a bright
reminder to write into our stories
some scenes of lustiness and joy.

A handful of weeks ago, the fields were newly plowed.
Along their edges, trees in fresh green watched
seeds and prayers fall into the turned soil.
Beneath the circle dance of sun and stars,
sprouts rose in neat rows and put forth leaves
that marked their kind, beans in this field,
corn in that, each growing taller day by day.
And the trees, whose leaves turned emerald,
watched and whispered their praise
as the crops reached their fullness, and drying,
turned gold, and were gathered from their fields.
Now the trees turn golden too, and crimson,
and release their leaves to dance across
the empty fields, singing to them, “Well done.”

This air, these cycling seasons,
this rocky island on which we stand,
these trees, every blade of grass, every drop of rain,
this brilliant sunshine, this tumultuous variety
of shape and color and form, was given to us all.
Not to an elite, however defined. Not conditioned
by anyone’s notion of worthiness. But freely,
to teach and bring comfort and joy.

It looks like a scene from another world,
and I suppose it is. Or a portrait perhaps
of another time, long ago.
And that, I suppose, depends
on how you measure time and whether
you even believe in it at all anymore,
what with things passing by at such a
breakneck speed these days. Nevertheless,
at early twilight on a day I call yesterday
I turned down the road just in time
to see a line of turkey hens,
or so I guessed them to be, blending
in with the early evening shadows
as they moseyed across the road,
and disappeared into the brush.

Stand beneath the heavens,
beneath the vast canopy
spread above you to remind you
that, although you are not supreme,
you are valued enough to warrant rain,
adored enough to be given fragrant winds,
loved enough to be granted the sight
of this glorious, cloud-strewn sky.

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.