Image credits: Unknown,
from a blog on The Dhammapada,
an anthology of Buddhist verses.

It's my favorite season.

Others say that but they

only care about the aspens primping,

dressing up before going out,

and the new bite in the breeze.

It's cool the way it blows

but that's not what gets me.

 

By now, the spiffy colors

shouldn't fool us

but of course, they do

and that's the beauty of it.

Love and death

always have their reasons.

they both come through

and we go off

and make it an event.

We mark it on our calendars.

 

I watch the summer leave

the way I watch you

walk away . . . 

I make sure I feel

it in my bones.

It's the only frame

of reference I can trust,

the only way to really

read the weather.

I hold a finger up

and mouth my aching truth.

You don't hear me

call your name.

 

It's not a time of year.

It's not the equinox

or the harvest moon.

It's not a pumpkin on a postcard

or a Sunday drive

up to the mountains.

It's the slow descent,

the suicide, the Fall,

the going out

when we don't see

what's coming in.

It's the time of turning,

remembering what we are,

knowing everything will change

and there is nothing more to know,

and nothing we can do.