1.
This morning you dreamed of a ravishing sunrise,
a riot of crimson and gold, just outside the front door.
When you awoke, you went to the door and opened it.
There it was, just as glorious as you had dreamed!
My dream is not as splendid, but I will tell it:
I am sitting in a pile of fallen leaves. It is October,
and each leaf is now a mere memory of light,
even as it inexorably returns to dust.
In its own way, everything is trying against all odds
to persevere, even though its destiny is to fall
from the tree and wither into the earth.
For this reason, we can’t hold on to any anger
or resentment — we are all in the process of falling,
regardless of how desperately we attempt to cling.
There is a subtle music carried on the breeze at dawn.
Every leaf is humming, blissful in the blossoming light.
The birds in their nests hear the symphony and join in,
first one lone voice, then a mounting avian chorus.
We rise and sleepily go to the window, or open our doors,
look out, and sigh — whatever else we may say about it,
everything is breathing, this whole world is alive!
2.
It may be that we all see things differently,
though whatever happens to one of us,
surely happens to us all.
Even though the crows once snatched
some new eggs from a robbin’s nest,
the other birds kept praising.
What else can we do amidst the shifting light
of this incomprehensible mystery but pause
awhile and raise our voices to heaven?
Generation after generation of small winged creatures
come and go, sweethearts every one, all perfect shards
of the turning light, all proof of its undying majesty.
Every night we can look up and remember that we all
descended from the stars, even as we stand in the shine
of our own magical light, pondering what will come next.
We may be surrounded by throngs of galaxies all teeming
with every kind of life, but the sweetness of true compassion
remains as rare as golden flowers angels planted in the air.
Now it is October again, and everything is swaying
playfully in the fragrant Autumn winds. The sunsets
are more spectacular too along the continental rim.
Temperatures are dropping, we stack firewood to burn.
Not far in the distance, Winter is approaching fast.
Once again, the light will turn.
3.
I have been out in the front yard stacking wood. I take
more work breaks now, because the body requires it.
What once took three hours now takes three days.
Still, it is pleasant to sit on these cool Fall mornings
and watch as the sunlight gradually sweeps across
the Boxwood, Buddleia, Kousa, Chinese Fringe,
and then over the Dogwoods and Laurels.
Now a hanging leaf has drifted down from an oak,
snagged itself on a branch for the day, and waves
back and forth in the slight breeze, beckoning.
As the sunlight finally permeates it, rendering it
prismatically translucent, the natural ambient noise
in the background goes silent, and even the Blue Jays
chasing each other around the trees stop squawking.
As I gaze at this lovely sight, nothing comes to mind.
It is what it is, and I sense words would be redundant.
By allowing its presence to expand until it occupies
my complete attention, everything else vanishes.
I disappear, the wood waiting to be stacked dissolves
in light, and there is only this lit leaf radiating the great
perfection, the answer to every question never asked.
Suddenly the spell is broken from behind by the arrival
of the mail truck. I walk over to the driver and greet her.
We chat briefly about the local fires as she hands me
a box and two letters. The box contains some coffee
Mazie ordered. I am ready to try a cup right now.
4.
The determined Dark-eyed Junco shares a water bath
with a cautious white-throated Sparrow as you and I
while away the wistful time, the wan October time
of this moving mystery year — this love after death
celebration and return of the miracle Hermit Thrush.
The blossom of tears more frequent now at the sheer
enormity of what we cannot say but only deeply mutely
feel: the full flock of Band-tailed Pigeons busily descending
like a fluttering cloud of heaven on the night-soaked seeds,
a heaven-sent arrival timed to the sudden swift departure
of the fleeing trickster cobalt Jays and jealous jaded Towhees.
The tiny White-breasted Nuthatch daintily snatches one sun-
flower seed at a time, flies it straight up the steep standing Pine
to store in deep bark crannies. Each seed sinks deftly down into
the nether world, nourishing the dormant denizens of the dark
like no other simple sort of seed could dream or dare to do.
Lo, they’re drawn backwards into smooth and supple suits
of fresh flesh and blood, of bone and sinew — see, they rise,
renewed, renamed again from the deathly dark, as do our
pinecone prayers and poor petitions all ascend far higher
to a swirl of light, a biblical flood of pure clear light, and
just so, like a stretched-out string of wind, disappear therein.
Where have they gone? Where are we now — we came from
seed, we didn’t hesitate, we were the light, born down alone
from the ever bright, the luminous seed of the gods’ delight,
the promise and glad fulfillment of their fair October songs,
the fast falling down of the crimson and gold, the way the Oak
leaves cycle in the free Fall air outside our window, the sound
of their pleasing crinkle and crunch, that soft rustle in the night
that tells us everything’s alright, before the rains at last unleash.
Feeling To Infinity 