It is this time of year,
that the tall and golden sun flowers bow their great heads, to mourn the end of summer.
quietly and carefully the garden has been turned under in a kind of closing ceremony,
like the fresh and sacred ground of a tomb.
Preparing the soft and giving earth to wait out another winter.
The sweat and wonder of summer has long since left, and we wait.
We wait in the fiery, golden, light of autumn, set against it's lengthened shadows,
deep and mysterious.
We wait in its damp morning fog
Or its gray drizzling mornings.
Our hearts grow in heaviness and awe at the sight of the first frost, cold and unforgiving
The geese call out, harsh and metallic, a warning
and a wanting.
Different days are coming.
It is this time of year, that we celebrate and grieve. We let go, and hold on, and we wait, and remember, the days that are to come.