most years the neighbor’s cottonwood
is not the first tree to turn toward autumn,
but this week a patch of gold appeared
amid the green

a life incredible, vivid, excellent.
most years the neighbor’s cottonwood
is not the first tree to turn toward autumn,
but this week a patch of gold appeared
amid the green
a few nights ago
sister autumn snapped her fingers
and now the trees have shed
their workaday green
for party frocks of fire and gold
all the flowers in the wild garden
have yielded their spirits to autumn’s chill
and become dry brown ghosts, their seeds
falling out of cracked heads and cones
when i woke this morning
the ground lay thick with leaves
the autumn mists hang ghostly white
as sunrise burns away the night
How do you bring in the seasons? How do you honor the change in the weather, in the mood, in the rhythm of life?
Read Morei looked out the bathroom window one morning and caught the neighbour’s cottonwood tree all a-quiver in the blush of the morning sun. every golden leaf shimmered spangle-like as the tree thrilled to the whispering wind; i thought my heart would burst with beauty. the hedge across the field is slow to turn at first.…
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