Autumn declines a solar invitation of seasonal commune

Temperatures dip with the rise of winds, low lying cyclones that discard leaves to hollows

Stalks still standing at attention, continue to haunt my vision with ghosts of where their kaleidoscopic color and honey bee ecstasy reigned supreme

While vines wither, rigor, and rattle their future generations in a haphazard scatter of regeneration

I can’t get out of my head the sycamore leaves that collapse and fold in on themselves, but never let loose from their tree

Is that strength in willpower? Strength in promise? Or mere punishment?

Death should be freeing…it should be freedom…the release and the free flow…

Or is it that the sycamore isn’t ready to let go? Not ready to free itself of the old to make room for the new? An element of fear of the what if?

Resurrection shouldn’t be a novel concept to nature…rebirth is the perennial mantra…

…but ahhh, a misdirected human attribute…I repent the error of my thought…and silence my mind…shuttering my eyes…enveloping myself in the blue hour…each dead leaf releasing from my body…

…I can feel the quickening of the flourish that’s awaiting me in the distance…

E. A. O'Connell. November 14, 2021.