Perhaps my age has taught me appreciation
for slowing down and accepting
seasons for what they are, for vacation
and weekends with less expecting

of far-off adventures. I say this
because I’ve never appreciated
autumn as much as I do now. The bliss
of air crispness, trees emaciated
as leaves turn colors and tumble.

Apples taste fresher. Isn’t that odd?

Learning the joy of this makes me humble.
I’ve become more certain of my own god,
a natural sort of spirit, not fickle,
not bent on hurt or pain.

This god has a barn full of hoe and sickle.
This god pours the watering can of rain.

And maybe age has greased my wheels,
so that I spin more without
getting as far. There is much about autumn to feel,

much to talk about.
I take pleasure in the cider press.
We know these walks are precious, so we
make them long, I in shorts, she in a dress.
Both barefoot. Both learning peace.

Fall is the change of ripe to rust,
and it ensnares the romantic in me,
to attach meaning to the season.

A harvest can be
reconciliation of regrets, too. Give reason
to our mistakes. It can be reflection
on such a perfect summer. How
we earned this after last winter. We make connections
among the years, now.

They pass quicker. So I settle for a chair
on the lawn, writing my heart into a book.
I know that summer will always be there,
when winter melts and we take a look
at lives enriched by fires, by strolls,

by the places we call home, the catfish on our fishing poles.
So autumn becomes less a sad story to tell,
and becomes yet another source of passion in life’s finite well.

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