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I walk the hillside gathering twigs
that I will use as tinder for fires
on cold nights, an autumn custom
that I began a couple decades ago.
The air carries the fragrance
of fallen leaves and coming rain.
For one brief moment, the sun
breaks through the layers of cloud
and I turn to see it kiss the treetops
as they dance, tall and bright,
against the charcoal sky.
I add the moment to my twig bin
along with a fallen gold leaf.
Remind me, I say to it,
the next time that I touch you,
of this warm and shining day
when I saw the sun brushing
the mid-October leaves
and watched them shimmer
in its light.

You show us our greediness, autumn.
We walk through your perfect falling leaves,
through the exquisite textures and colors
of you, grasping the moment so tightly,
wanting it never to end, or at least to slow
so we can take in every detail. And yet
the dance itself is at the heart of the beauty.
And the song can only sing if
we let the music play.

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,
the grass still green, and they are content,
grazing beneath the wide big sky.

The way they lined the roadway
in the spotlight of the sun,
vines wrapped around them
like fine silken scarves,
they reminded me of ladies
from the 40’s, parading down
the sidewalk on a Sunday afternoon,
flaunting their fashions, showing off
their style.

There they lie, empty, fallen forms,
floating on light,
their days of summer suddenly gone
and all too soon.
And here we stand, railing at the cold,
at the emptiness their going leaves behind,
clinging to it as if by clinging
we could roll back time, and see them
dancing still.
Yet, even in our grieving, beneath its depths,
we hear their laughter and their songs,
blending with the Yes that dances
within us and beyond,
where time has no meaning
and love wears no form.

The world is in Humpty-Dumpty mode,
teetering precariously on the edge of the wall,
and today strong winds blow and fire shoots through the air
and explodes from the earth,
and dense clouds of surreality sail through the air.

Nevertheless, an island of peace rises from the calm lake
and the colors of autumn sing.

Looking back on this September,
in the year of 2024, you may think
of firestorms and hurricanes, 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, truly,
are precious and loved.

Somewhere in the world
bright flowers are blooming.
Somewhere, the sun is shining down.
Lovers are embracing somewhere;
children are dreaming in their mother’s arms.
Somewhere, great music is playing
and songs are being sung. Someone
is climbing a mountain, someone
is offering prayer. Somewhere
friends break bread and weave warm
memories. Somewhere, butterflies
float and colored birds take wing.
Somewhere stars are glittering
in a velvet sky. And everywhere,
always, the Great Yes unfolds
in waves of limitless love.

As if September wished to hold the sun
as its hours of light dwindle,
it fills our fields and roadsides
with living, glowing gold, a feast
of color for our eyes and of pollen
for the bees. Its sole mission
is to nourish, and so deep into the sunset,
its burnished gold continues to glow
and its song of Yes to rise.

“Certain colors are beautiful together; other colors aren’t.”
That’s what she said, standing before her freshman class
of art students.  I remember finding that a curious thing
to say.  “Take, for instance,” she continued, “pink and orange.
Each has its own fine qualities, but never, when combined,
can they be considered beautiful.” The students took notes.
I started drawing doodles, tuned her out, fell into dreams.
I thought of her today as I came upon the wildflowers.
I laughed. Tell it to the bees, I thought.
Clearly, I was not the only one who didn’t listen.