Time Out - Oct 7 2022

 

Time Out

Oct 7 2022

One more strong gust

and all the leaves will be down

the trees stripped bare.

Here, on the edge of the boreal

it's mostly the yellows and browns

of aspen and birch.

Some tamaracks, as well;

tall straight trees

with golden needles

that seem to radiate light.

Evergreens, that aren't;

solo travellers

on their own unique path

that shed their needles each fall.

Which you can actually hear,

coming down

in intermittent showers

and tinkling to earth.

But right now

the sun is shining, the sky blue,

and this is that one golden moment

of a sepia fall

I will not forget;

a still photo

fixed in my mind's eye

that will survive a brutal winter

soggy spring

and whatever summer brings

in drought and bugs and heat.

The zenith

of my favourite season

lasts just a single day.

When I take time out

to take it all in

with mindful gratitude.

Even though I'm not sure

to whom or what I give thanks

and hardly have the words.

So, like a Zen koan

that has no answer,

I simply contemplate the view,

accepting the paradox

that recipient or not

I can still wholeheartedly give.

Tonight, frost.

While tomorrow, there are leaves that need raking

and tires to change.

The sound

of crisp leaves underfoot.

Of kids' excited voices

jumping into piles;

that is

if the children of today

don't grown-up too fast.

And the sharp smell when they burn

that stirs something deep inside.

Columns of smoke

rising straight into the sky

in the still autumn air.

A total path-of-least-resistance poem: the pathetic thematic trifecta of weather, seasons, and nostalgia I can't seem to help returning to.