October 10, 2014:
The chill in the air in the morning
is a welcome refreshment
from the mortal wound of summer;
a relief, even with its foreshadowing.
I love when that coolness kisses
the early light, and the evening,
yet there is warmth, still, to burn it off
as the day’s strength siezes it.
In the air, something always stirs.
When season’s change, I feel it most.
Autumn, always so apro pos
with all of its falling away,
as if the cycle is in me;
the great stripping down to bare.
Exposure is so beautiful
to behold, so stark
to the emerging soul:
always dying to be reborn.
Can you help me?
Dear Autumn, can you ease me
into the release of all
that must currently die?
Can you encourage me to let go,
so leaves may slip off,
swinging and swaying,
as if by song?
How you dance them, those leaves.
How informed are those trees, like all.
Can you shake me down,
or sing me gently to the ground;
Assist the implication and lend
compassion to your command?
All of this in all of its order
surpasses me. For Autumn, I know,
holds no power but from where
the grand governance came.
I cannot plead with the weather,
for the weather simply is.
I make no idols when I see
the fingerprints upon creation
I only seek to learn
from their imprints.
I’ve only ever been as a sheet
of wrapping plastic, impressed
by those same fingers,
demanding ever into it, a shape.
Likened to a glove, I pray
the maker’s hand be my wearer.
That beautiful order that begs me to die
again and again, be merciful.
Let me see the wonder in the agony
of dissolution (like always, eventually).
Let me be held in the embrace
of the rhythm of the Law. Let my eyes
be open when it serves, and closed
when you call me to rest in your stillness.
And when I am sloughed off,
my purpose served,
and the abduction of me again returns,
let me go quietly.
Quell the fight,
so I may do as leaves do,
and with a sound so soft,
only the order hears it.
Let me fall to the earth in silence.
And from silence, I be born.
Copyright © Season Naify
Photo from vibrantnation.com