Early Autumn Days

Young woman standing in the middle of autumn meadow with high go

And where, in those early autumn days
Did you first feel the chill on your cheek
And ask, “Where do I go from here?”

As you look up into the heavens,
Crisp dry leaves framing your view,
The waning warmth of summer’s sun on your cheek

Your feet begin to take root
Your arms spread wide
Your heart opens to take in the glory of all that is

And in this instant of vulnerability and connection
You know where to go,
You know

©SpiritLed 2015

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Masterpiece

Opened

Like first snow falling on autumn leaves
still strewn across the ground,
this cold permeates the places
that still long to feel sunshine’s warmth

Have patience, dear one,
for the winter of your being serves it purpose,
it devours the crackling debris of your spirit,
blankets you with pure white blessings,
offers deep rest as you piece yourself back together

Then when the sun appears in your soul once more, rise up
through the wild torrents of lusty spring
make your desperation into a masterpiece,
hang it on the walls of courage and perseverance,
honor its gift of strength, always ready
for the next fallen snow

©SpiritLed 2015

The Leaf

A red-gold leaf floats to the ground, and there
I pick it up, hold it gently,
flat in my palm, a mirror of my own hands,
points like fingers, lines and veins, delicate and strong,

lines that cast the story of the journeys we
make, to the precipice and back and, for some, to hell,
where we may stay a while, take up residence in our suffering,
until we either persevere or perish.

In these lines, on this path, these hands stroke children’s faces, twirl golden strands
between fingers, touch cheeks at night, through tears;
in the dark, these hands, solemn and life-giving,
belong to my mother.

These hands clumsily fiddle with a lighter, shaky and desperate,
light the cigarette, flip this way and that, dangle the stick of burning tobacco–
with an air of confidence, and yet those lines betray longing for one more tomorrow–
as ashes fall, unnoticed, to the ground.

Crackling against my skin like the rough and delicate fabric of the leaf, this path for once
becomes a burden, a stifling presence that keeps me from the joys of red-gold leaves on autumn days.
And so, with the hands we share, I crumble the leaf, release it to the wind, a weight–
long-held–removed, a crumbly, red-gold burden of the soul.

A leaf floats to the ground, and there I pick it up, and there my life begins.

© SpiritLed 2013