Something About the Light - Sept 30 2021

 

Something About the Light

Sept 30 2021

There is something about the light

aside from the leaves.

Which are red and gold and yellow

and crisp underfoot.

Could it be the clear dry air

temperate weather

low autumn sun?

As distinctive as winter,

when the light is thin, astringent, distilled,

and the crystalline whiteness

of freshly fallen snow

can leave you blind,

squinting through tears

and stumbling through the drifts.

Or the lushness of summers.

When sunlight travels

through thick humid air

then settles in for long torpid days;

where, like whisky, it mellows,

aging

to a soft rich caramel

in toasted barrels

of well-seasoned oak.

While spring hurts

our unaccustomed eyes

as the sun ascends, and strengthens,

its nascent light

reflecting off the raw wet earth

and passing through the loamy scent

of newly thawed soil.

But now, in a golden fall

my eyes can rest.

I crunch through crimson leaves

and feel the warm dry balm

of unseasonable heat

infusing through my skin

and softening the world.