Category: Autumn 2024

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.

When you want a taste of peace,
this is a place you can come, this place
where the tall ones rise from the earth
and tower toward the sky.
Stand among them and be still;
stillness is their first gift to you.
Feel how you are rooted in the earth
and formed from it. Breathe in
the light and the moist, warm air.
Notice the dance of the life force
through your veins and the music
of its movement. Notice
how it is not contained within you,
but flows with your breath, carrying
your essence outward into the air
to dance with the essences of grass
and flowers, trees, and ants and birds,
your note forming part of the song.
Watch the trees allow their leaves
to color and fall, the seasons
to change, time to flow. Hear
them breathing the Yes.
Taste its essence in the air,
flowing into you, and through you,
beyond the farthest edge of time.

I’ve taken the time, these last few days of summer,
to visit my favorite haunts, the beloved
and familiar places, to bid the season farewell.
The trail through the woods is lined with gold
and trimmed with bits of crimson. The first
fallen leaves crunch beneath my boots. Still,
the green prevails and shocks of goldenrod
continue to hold the sun. The earth feels hungry
and eager, as if the first scattering of leaves
has whetted its appetite for the great feast
about to come. In the warm air, a fragrance
unique to autumn drifts leisurely by.
A squirrel sits on a stump munching
on a pine cone. A hawk soars overhead
as high as the clouds heaped in the sky.
It’s a perfect moment, a jewel of transitioning
seasons. I touch the leathery green skin
of an oak leaf, whispering to this last day
of summer my heartfelt thanks and farewell.

Let us sing now the ripening of corn,
primeval source of our sustenance,
earth become fruit to nurture her children,
colored with her ores, her soils, her sands.
Let us sing now with our ancestors
the ancient song of praise,
the great chant of thanksgiving
for the ripening, once more, of the corn.

Summer is packing her bags now,
saying her farewells, lowering the lights,
gathering her greens, ushering the last
of the songbirds toward the southern horizon.
At night, as she sleeps, autumn tiptoes in,
and smiling at all that she has done,
kisses her forehead and breathes
over the land to bless her going.