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On Festival Day, the dwellers of the woodland were awakened by the holly tree’s clear, sweet song, calling them to greet the morning.

Each of them put on their most beautiful garments, and after a light breakfast, waited for the procession to reach their homes.

A regal deer stood in the clearing beside the elves’ house, his breath frosty in the cold air. His horns were adorned with bells and streams of greens and berries, and he stood tall and proud. Soon the Elf King and the Spirits of Fun arrived and took their places behind him, with all the woodland elves forming the end of the line.

At the sound of the Mirth Elf’s horn, the deer stepped out, leading the parade from one home to another, with all of them singing the Festival songs in honor of the returning Light. As one dweller after another joined in the parade, the song grew richer and fuller until it echoed off the lake and ponds and shimmered through the trees. Every branch and twig quivered in joy to its sound.

Then the deer led the line of celebrants around the outer edges of the woods four times, to honor each of the past year’s seasons. And when the last round was complete, the parade marched to the end of the small pond where they encircled Grandfather Pine.

And there they sang once more their song of honor and welcome to the returning Light, and from the heavens, a beautiful angel descended above Grandfather’s crown, stars falling all around her.

“Greetings, dear children,” she said, gazing at them with a face full of tenderness. “I am the Angel of the Solstice, come to thank you for your praise. Having traveled to the end of its southward journey, today the Light indeed begins its return to your land. And with it, it brings the inspiration for all new beginnings that life may renew itself once more in your northern lands.

“Plan now how you will use the gifts it brings you to increase your growth and expand the world’s joy, for that is its purpose in shining. It beams the undying love of the Great Yes to you that you may fulfill all your potential and realize each of your heart’s true dreams, now and evermore, from form to form, from world to world, until you arrive at Love’s very heart.”

Then the angel faded away, and Grandfather himself led the final chorus of the song of honor to the Light.

“Well done, my friends,” he said as the song ended. “Now begin your celebration. Your feast awaits you. May your games be merry and your day be bright. And then, sweet ones, rest well and dream deeply, for winter is begun, and in our inner worlds, we have much to do to ready ourselves for spring. Think on the angels’ counsel and let your finest dreams reveal to you all that you may be.”

He nodded to the Mirth Elf, who blew his trumpet in a Joyous salute, and the deer, and Elf King, the Spirits of Fun, and all the elves, led the revelers back to the clearing where they feasted and played all day long.

Consider this: Everything you needed
to get this far appeared somehow
or other. Food, drink, shelter, lessons.
And the lesson in that is there’s no reason
ever to be afraid. The Yes produces
berries for the birds on their journey
and winds to flow beneath their wings.
Trust in that, and fly on in peace.

This maple that stands at the edge of the cornfield
at the big curve in the road, this one, newly aflame
with the deep oranges she lifts to the sky each autumn,
is an old friend. I’ve known her for decades now,
walked beneath her branches, explored the old farmhouse
she sheltered all its life. I remember the tire swing
that hung from one of her limbs and imagine
the laughter of children playing there on a day
much like this one. Their family had a barn, too,
and cows that grazed where the corn grows now.
And right in the middle of the cornfield, there’s a tree
with thick branches that folks call the hanging tree.
This maple holds all these stories for me and more.
I always look her way as I slow for the curve.
She comforts me, and I imagine we’re radiating
love to each other, feeling a connection somehow.
I round the curve and the cornfield gives way to woods,
and she is behind me now, marking the invisible point
that tells me my journey’s ending. that I am almost home.

Another thing I’ve noticed about September
is how she loves to dance.

Standing in this spot six months ago
I could hardly remember
that the bleak and frozen landscape
could give rise to this,
to trees luxuriant with leaves
and seeds, to velvety grass,
to a field of tasseled corn,
to moist warm air, filled
with birdsong and the fragrance
of summer. And now,
standing in this spot,
it’s hard to imagine
that in a handful of weeks
it will again return to sleep
beneath heaped blankets
of shimmering snow.
Yet here is the vision of it,
clear in my mind, and of springtime,
and autumn as well, the seasons blending
into the whole of this now,
where crows call and the air
is perfumed with summer.

“Then I woke up,” Reese said,
“in this wild and crazy
multi-dimensional
rainbow-colored
reptilian conspiracy world.”

Yup.
And then some.

After the rain, I took a tour of the gardens.
The air is still very warm and moist
and feels as if it’s licking my bare arms
with a big, wide tongue. Everything glistens.
I smile at the bright upside down flowers
floating in the peppermint patch.
The promised thunderstorm skirted around us again.
I watched the radar as the storm patch separated,
some going to the north of us, some to the south.
All we got was a speckling of rain. I pouted.
But then I thought that I should be grateful
for what is, and careful what I wish for,
and the little flowers beamed.

Hey, pretty petunia, old friend.
It wouldn’t be summer without you, you know.
Why, I remember when I was only three
how you lined the path to the dirt-floored cellar
where Aunt Maybelle kept her wringer washer,
your scent mixing with the fragrance of soap
as she washed clothes, and how kittens played
their games of hide and seek beneath your blooms.
That long you’ve colored my summers,
over half a century now. And still you’re with me,
smiling outside my kitchen door, the neighbor’s cat curled
beside you, loving your purple, sharing your sun.

As I strolled through the gardens this morning,
greeting the inhabitants, admiring their lush greens
and fine forms, I found myself pulling dried leaves
blown from the hillside by the night’s strong breeze,
trapping them in the garden’s greenery where, to my eye,
they marred the scene, looking quite out of place.
It was almost an unconscious motion, a tidying up
that seems to be second nature to me now.
One crumpled leaf, just above eye level, jolted me
awake. This was no leaf. This was cool leather
wiggling in my hand. Startled by its motion,
I flung it down, where it landed on the lily leaves
and let me study its decorated wings. Later I learned
it ‘s called a “blinded sphinx moth.” Some gifts come
with such special names and colors, and every one
is a delight and a surprise.