Red and gold handkerchiefs flap about the floor,
Mischievously hiding once common sights.
Summer’s green gloves turned by another season.
A soft breeze blows the willow’s silver sleeves with ease,
And the Birch’s too.
Exhausted Brimstones falling to rest on the pavement.
In unison, the trees barrel and roll,
Great swathes of tumbling sage form folding waves on which the wind surfs:
Autumn announces it’s turning.
Scales of warm, washed-out mauve mists refuse to surrender to the encroaching cold,
The sky looks bigger today.
Welcoming, embracing as the unfinished bracelet moon hints at darkness descending.
And darkness is coming, it must; it will.
Stretching out in front of us, seemingly forever,
An unlit, unforgiving glacier with no horizon.
And with it comes the long sentence,
The term to pass in which to ponder and contemplate.
Not to sit in judgement, but to value.
Value the lights that have passed and those to come,
Of the place, wherever it be, that we call home.
To know the circle will begin; again.