The leaves above the brook
begin their great journey now,
letting go and dropping into the water.
Who knows what worlds they will see?
Trees shed the weight of their work
and slip into something more comfortable.
Now the sun’s laying on of hands
is not so forceful, but more intimate, more gentle.
The hillside deepens from its reds and yellows
to the color of experience,
the color of knowing without having to say.
Leaves fall, each with its own little tap.
They gather in sorrow and gratitude,
ready to become what is next.
This is the season of bareness and of seeds.
This, too, is newness, and peace.
as all that is passes
and becomes what shall be.
An occluded front of attachment passes,
allowing what is before us
to be beautiful enough.