Misty.
Gently you slip into the season
with subtle stillness,
softly.
Silent.
Never mind what's happening over here,
just the relinquishing of summer
a little at a time,
easy-like.
Careful.
I hardly notice.
The letting go is slow
and incremental
like my paddle, dipping,
and the inching closer of the doe.
Maybe we won't notice each other too much,
not to startle.
All right.
You can be here.
Since you're being so nice about it.
And I will sing a song of seasons.
In praise to the One put them all on their course.
Summer and winter and springtime and harvest.
And harvest.
And maybe all the soul-work of the summer
will now bring a bounty to the table.
Maybe all that was received
in these wondrous weeks of summer
can now be gathered and given
in the generous months of fall.
And maybe that's what this was all about anyways.
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