The Passage

It's that awkward time of year, when the world can't decide,
When Autumn comes around to play from night into the morning time;
She teases clinging leaves with her crisp and playful laughter,
Until they start to tremble and they laugh together louder;
When she's finally had her fill of glee she floats off in the breeze,
While Summer loiters, after noon, to burn and taunt the leaves!

It's that greying time of year, when the sky can disappear,
When mists and fogs and colored clouds tread low upon the earth,
Escape not just for heaven, but for world-weary souls
Longing for an empathy with which to soothe their doles;
The damp seclusion offers hope of solitary peace,
In which to kindle inner growth, while outside worlds freeze.

It's that waning time of year, when the world begins to sleep,
When trees turn in, and grasses down, and water currents deep;
The land is stripped of movement, and of color, and of light,
And wind will scour every nook with feeling, eyeless sight;
Its a piercing desolation that will seep into the marrow,
Creaking joints and slowing hearts tomorrow and tomorrow...

It's that passing time of year, that ever passing time,
That cycles 'round despite its course upon a perfect line;
It all seems so familiar, like we've walked this road before,
And yet it's always different, slightly changed, less or more;
Perhaps a spiral - not a line - that never touches 'gainst itself,
Just close enough to let us see how little we change, ourselves.


October 23, 2009 - November 27, 2009