Category: Autumn’s Song 2003

The light dances down, falling in colors
on the water, spreading 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 I, standing ankle deep
in asters, breathe in the light and fragrance
and exhale contentment and peace.

Beneath a cloud-heaped sky that dwarfs them,
the cattle graze, happy for their still-green pasture,
the cool air. They may be oblivious to time,
but like the autumn trees that edge their world,
something deep within them knows the seasons.
Perhaps vague memories of winter float
through their minds, long days in the dim light
of the barn, feeding on hay, soaking
in the warmth of each other’s bodies.
Perhaps they smell the coming snow.
Nevertheless, today the pasture is wide
and the grass still green, and they are content,
grazing beneath the big sky.

Maybe that’s what all of us are here for:
To hold the sun. To step it down to earthsize,
to be its outer edges here. They tell me,
after all, that it was stars that built us,
that tiny bits of them make up our cells. Could be.

One thing’s for sure. These squash have it down.
I mean, just look at them there,
practically on fire with all those oranges and golds,
looking like they held so much sun it was oozing
right through their skin. Maybe we’re all
meant for that, for holding so much sun
that all we can do is shine, baby. Think so?

Here I am, rolling through the corn again,
aware that soon the giant green machines
will be rolling through, too, gobbling up
the ears, shooting them into trucks,
bits and pieces of their dried leaves flying
through the air, chopped stalks left behind,
crows swooping in to feast on missed cobs.
But the ripened corn isn’t the only wonder.
I mean, just look at that cloudless autumn sky.

This is one of those scenes that froze me
in my tracks, not daring to move until
I had taken in as much of it as I could hold.
The longer I looked, the larger the mystery of it
became, seeping deeper and deeper
into the forest, into the very trunks of the trees,
and yet floating as well on the whispering air
that surrounded me, brushing my face, my skin.
My mind is entranced; the choreography is perfect.
Nothing is haphazard, nothing is by chance.
Everything is music, and the never-ending dance.

I hadn’t intended to pass by the lake.
I meant to take the highway. But then
I got distracted by my thoughts and missed
my turn and here I was, right in the midst
of this absolute splendor of
a perfect autumn afternoon.
The fisherman in the boat near the far shore
is so still he doesn’t even make a ripple.
Here, four geese etch the lake
with their fine silver wakes, disturbing nothing,
silent as the water, slowly floating through
the reflections of the brilliant, turning trees.
I blend into the stillness, too, softly breathing
thanks.

As the sun dipped behind the tops of the pines to her west,
the meadow felt the warmth of its powdery golden light,
pollen and seeds floating in the glow of it. From her grasses
the song of the crickets rose, floating across the whole of her,
down to the lake and to the forest at her edge. So soothing
was the song, that for a long, soft moment the meadow drifted
into a dream about all the flowers and birds, the butterflies
and spiders who had danced for her since spring.
Soon the last of them would be gone. And with that thought,
she woke from her reverie, glad to see asters swaying
in the early evening light, because you never know,
she reasoned, when a migrating hummingbird might stop by.

A little love note from the universe
made its way to me, despite the odds.
It poked me and said, “So, kid,
just what is it that you’re looking for?”
I smiled, thinking all I was seeking
was the usual. You know.
I know you know. We’re all sifting
through time’s sands for it.
And how its nuggets shine!

I couldn’t see the tops of the corn until I got to the rise
of this hill. The stalks, suddenly gone from green to tan,
are taller than my car now, almost ready for harvest.
I get to drive this smooth, curving road every Wednesday,
and I confess it’s a highlight of my week, year ’round.
But today, the first day of sun after many days of rain,
it thrills me. Just yesterday, it seems, I was a flea
on the hide of a sleeping elephant as I drove between
stubbly mounds of rutted, muddy gray. And now,
look what this land has done! All those green shoots that rose
from that elephant’s hide in spring have turned into corn!
I feel rich, as I breathe in the late September air,
a flea become a king.

As autumn rushes in, her flashy colors and cold in tow,
she sets aside some places of refuge from the tumult,
places of calm, where sun and shadows balance
and peace resides.

Within each of us, such places dwell,
little meadows of reverie and dream,
where we can sit for a while and gather ourselves
when the rush of the world overwhelms.

It’s good to map them out, to keep little postcards
of them in our pockets, remembering their scents
and seasons, and sounds, returning to them
whenever the need arises for refuge, for calm.
Settle there for a while. Feel the peace.
Hear the whispers: You are welcome.
You are cherished. You are loved.