Watching the leaves
change,
color dripping
into my vision,
like an artist
painting over
some abandoned canvas.
Grey and blue
the sky awaits.
Hazy and threatening
to bruise
purple
and turn the heart cold.
Mule deer in the field,
crops cut low
and the elk bugle
echoes down the valley.
Time for a warmer coat,
but it won’t cover up
the parts of the soul
that are exposed.
Bring in the garden.
Dig deep
before the frost comes.
Memories burn,
like split firewood
crackles in the stove.
How is there still hope?
The fading light
promises darkness,
but we know
we are as much
creatures of the dying light,
as we are
the dawn.
Put on my gloves,
and get to work.
Dying is no easy chore.
Just ask the trees,
and the bullfrogs,
and the black bear
that ready themselves
for their long sleep.
Ready for the journey,
preparing our tribute
to pay the fare
to cross the river Styx.
The dying of the year
brings perspective,
as all things come
full circle.
Cool air on the skin,
quickens the heart,
as our days grow short.
Soon,
we will know
the worth of our souls.
HG – 2021
