Imagine floating, on a fine autumn day,
down from the tree that birthed you,
gently floating on a breath of a breeze
and landing, feather-soft, on water
so still you can’t even see it.

This is the place that eclipses everything else,
where only being exists, mine melded with it all,
distinct but a part of it. Me – not even thinking
how – transcribing its frequencies into color,
temperature, fragrance, taste, sound, motion,
sending back to it joy-laced wonder. Thoughts
dissolve here before they’re even formed.
The silt-covered rocks beneath the clear water
have no need of words to say what they are.
The water cannot be captured by names.
The only way to comprehend the mystery
is to drench yourself in it, and to let it
drench itself in all you have to give.

October brought the corn to its peak. Now the trick
is to get it in between rains if the field is dry enough
for the harvester and the enormous truck that hauls
it to giant bins for drying and storage. That’s for starters.
From there it goes on long journeys in many directions,
nurturing many along the way, and at the end returning
to the earth, as, I suppose, do all living things.
As of today, I see that a giant swath of the crop
has been cut and hauled. Much more remains. Soon.
The farmer studies weather screens with a furrowed brow.
“Friday,” he murmurs. “Maybe late tomorrow.”
I stop to photograph the field’s texture and curve,
the distant row of standing corn looking brave
beneath an ominous sky that threatens snow.
But Friday, maybe tomorrow afternoon, sunshine
will waltz across these hills and the mighty machines
will join in the song, and a week from now, the corn
will be gone.

A few stands of color held on until the end.
Someone had to hold the gold in salute to her.
Fallen leaves tumbled across the leveled fields.
Someone had to dance in her honor.
Vast clouds sailed on a brisk, cold wind.
Someone had to wrap her in ermine.
She, who brought the harvest to fruition.
She, who woke us from our summer dreams
with the glory of her song. Someone
got to stand here in this field, breathing
the fragrance of her, watching as she spent
her last hours singing a final amen
as the winds and the hours swept her away.

As night fell, a curtain of rain swept
through the woods, hurling the maples’ gold
to the ground, except for a token few,
the bravest. And of course the russet oaks
held on. They’ll endure nearly ‘til winter.
The green on the forest floor was gone, too,
tucked in against the sudden cold beneath
the deep quilt of fallen leaves. As I peered
at this stark new scene I thought to myself
that at least I would now be able to see
the squirrels leaping, the turkeys and deer
ambling up the hill from the field below.
And hardly had the thought written itself
across my mind when a buck appeared,
large, and sporting an impressive rack,
slowly ascending the western slope
as if he owned it. Now the serious side
of autumn has begun. Act two.

Two years ago, in mid-October, the stream
that flows from the last spillway down to the lake
was lined with a vast heap of autumn wildflowers
so artfully arranged that the sight made you stop
and stare at the textures and movement and colors
as if you were standing in a great ancient gallery
before a masterpiece that took up a whole section
of wall, only this gallery was made of earth and sky.
The next year, some no-doubt educated and informed
person with authority over this piece of county land
ordered it all mowed down, turned to grass.
I have a little card on my bulletin board that says
“Look around you. Appreciate what you see.
Nothing will be the same in a year.”

Their motion caught my eye, a thousand leaves
whirling in the wind as if a cyclone had caught them,
their ecstasy filling the air, lifting my spirit along with
their own, etching the moment into the surface
of eternity, dancing there, and me with them, forever.

Dervish Dancing

“There is one outstanding example of pure dance: that of the whirling dervishes, an art that has been practiced since the 13th century. The procedure is part of a Muslim ceremony called the dhikr, the purpose of which is to glorify God and seek spiritual perfection. Not all dervish orders dance; some simply stand on one foot and move the other foot to music. Those who dance, or, rather, whirl, are the Mawlawī dervishes, an order that was founded by the Persian poet and mystic Jalāl al-Dīn al-Rūmī at Konya, in Anatolia, in the 13th century.”
https://www.britannica.com/topic/Islamic-arts/Dervish-dancing

Even now, beneath skies deep with clouds
and a cold wind blowing, even now,
in the days of dwindling light, the Yes
provides reminders. The trees
may be nearly bare and the fields
stripped of vegetation, but look!
Here is a maple still holding its color,
a kiss-bright red to dispel the gloom. 
Go into the night believing.
You are supported, and loved.

The red-winged blackbirds are gone now,
having flown like the leaves from the trees
who stand bare behind the low blue creek,
raising their white limbs to the sky
as if in celebration of their freedom.
Except for the rustling of the breeze
through the bright oaks and the occasional
call of a crow, silence reigns, a portent
of the coming winter’s quiet. But before
the earth settles into dream, she dances
one more time, in jeweled colors lifted high,
like promises of beauty to come,
as she whirls toward winter,
toward another distant spring.