The Dying of the Year

 

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

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