HARVEST

Now nature's paintbrush strokes the trees in burnt orange and golds, and green recedes like a low tide. With that first biting frost the leaves dropped from their cozy limbs to scatter fall colors like paint drops on the dying lawns. The moon wanes, its feeble light accompanying me on my predawn walks. Already the intensity of summer fades like a teenage crush, or the smell of roses--gone into memory never to arise again. Before me lies the transformations of fruit to fodder, mid-day heat becoming rain-full clouds, and mountains capped in fresh butter cream frosting. It is not celebratory like the arrival of tulips and pansies. Muted colors, smells, and sounds bring me stock still taking in this precious moment. Frantic growth is over. Rest and renewal are coming.  In the still point of autumn I pause, breathe, marvel. I too am in the autumn of my days. No saying how long it will linger, but precious are the fruits and harvests of my fully lived, deeply-shared life.