the depths of the Fall.
Some leaves still green,
some a radiant red,
defying death for a moment
of blazing, illustrious relishment
before succumbing to the inevitable insensitivity
of time to beauty.
The long nights
punctuated by bright crescent moon
and crisp air,
and the inexorable charging
towards release into darkness.
We can never accomplish
all that we hope
in a season, a year,
That is the nature of the meeting
of our cyclical universe
with the linearity of desire.
Flow exists because of ebb.
And letting go is the art of a lifetime;
though incremental, increasingly essential the longer we live.
So we fall.
like finally dried leaves,
still damp with the memory
of a Spring seemingly barely gone.
We wrap our uncertainty and impermanence around us
like so much wool.
Somehow surprised, again,
that not even Summer lasts forever.
And the height of bright days’ blossoming
returns, in time,
both from and to
the depths of Autumn’s falling.