Category: Autumn Anthems

Every last particle—even those
of the tree bark, and those
of the stones and the soil
in the field, even those
so buoyant that they float
in the air forming clouds
and those that make up
the air itself—every one
of them feels the touch
of this autumn morning’s
light and resonates to
the song of its gold.

Once upon a magical time
in a season we called ‘autumn,’
we would wake to a world
suddenly bathed in dancing colors.
The ten thousand leaves on
the ten thousand trees, one by one
would trade their green for crimson,
or flaming orange, for lemon or lime
or gold. And day by day the colors
would grow more intense, until
the whole world seemed to be singing
with them. And these magical leaves
could fly, too. Down they would spiral
in a twirling, giddy ballet, sailing
through the air like birds suddenly
set free from their wooden cages,
their brilliant bodies piling, one
atop the other, in a quilt of color
on the grasses and rocks and shores.
And we would gasp at the beauty
of it all, and give thanks that we
had eyes to see.

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

The gifts are free for your taking,
inexhaustibly and everywhere.
Every single moment holds them,
especially the one we call Now.
It’s a willingness to see them
that makes them happen.
So wake in the morning with a vow
to receive the ones your soul most needs:
goodness, beauty, forgiveness, truth.
And let it be your soul that decides,
so that your heart may swell in humble joy
as you realize the very gifts which you
most truly desired are here before you,
always, and free for the taking.

The light dances down, falling in pools
on the water, smoothing itself
across the welcoming faces of leaves.
From the earth, the scent of autumn rises,
wafting across the mirrored surface of the creek,
melding with the season’s first ocher hues.
And we, standing ankle deep in wild asters,
breathe in the light and fragrance
and breathe out contentment and joy.

A velvet carpet, yellow-green,
lures me from the edge
of what , in summer, was a lake.
As I near it, the texture takes on
a lushness, an unexpected depth.
Its colors grow more radiant somehow.
I’m standing now at the doorway
of an undiscovered world, and
as I carefully step across its invisible
threshold, I see beneath my feet
a poem, alive and wild,
its meaning apparent and singing
to my soul.

Don’t sleep! October is here!
Her golden moments sing, you know, then,
like some exquisite aria, quickly fade away.

Some grandeur is too great to linger.
It sears the mind and memory and is gone
as if it were some glimpse of heaven,
a vision made of hope in a near-forgotten dream.

But this is no illusion. This is a gift of the Yes,
the pinnacle of its rolling seasons,
the fulfillment of their promises to you, given in love.

Stay awake. Let this beauty etch itself into your heart
to feed you for all of your days.

Here, dear September, take this bouquet
of your last flowers, which open now in salute,
small tokens, but pure and from the earth’s
very heart. Take them with our gratitude
for the gift of the days that you warmed,
for the magic you wove,
for the harvest you brought to fruition.
Wrap theses blossoms in your arms as you go
to remind you that in our memories
you will always be golden and loved.

Looking back on this September,
in the year of 2022, you may think
of hurricanes and threats of war,
of lives destroyed or irrevocably changed.
And you may be tempted
to let sorrow overwhelm you.
Life is always tenuous, and danger
often near. Our lessons in compassion
come with a great price. But
may you also remember, when
you think back on this time,
that its days held golden leaves
and sunflowers dancing to the song
of a gentle breeze, and that,
as she was leaving, September
left blue stars, shining from the grass,
love notes to remind you
that life goes on, and you
are precious and loved.

Peter Piper picked a peck or two here, I’ll tell you.
Peppers aplenty, fresh from the field,
peek from boxes and baskets, piled high,
their firm flesh luring us to linger above the display.
Our teeth tingle at the thought of their crunch.
The buds on our tongues stand ready
for the first wash of their juicy sweetness.
And so we stand there at the edge of dusty country road,
the sunshine bathing our shoulders,
the piquant aromas of onions, tomatoes, cucumbers, garlic,
melting beneath this one peppery smell.
The farm wife bags our bounty with a smile
and carefully counts out our change, wishing us a good day.
With a heap of bags strewn across the car’s back seat,
we drive off, breathing the fragrance of heaven.